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ELIZA COMES 
TO STAY 



A Farcical Comedy in Three Acts,) 



BY 



H. V. ESMOND 



LONDON: 

SAMUEL FRENCH* LTD. 

26,^0SrHAMPTON ST. 




HEW YORK; 
SAMUEL FRENCH 
28, WEST j8th STREET 



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ELIZA COMES TO STAY 



ELIZA COMES TO 
STAY 

A FARCE IN THREE ACTS 



By 
H. V. ESMOND 



Copyright, 1913, by Samuel French, Limited 



New York I London 

SAMUEL FRENCH SAMUEL FRENCH Ltd 

Publisher 2 6 Southampton Street 

28-30 WEST 381H STREET I STRAND 



'3 
ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

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Strand, London. 

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when the performances are consecutive (evening 
following evening, or evening following matirkee) 
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Edition may be hired or purchased reasonably from 
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Strand, London. 



4 
©CI.D 33844 



CHARACTERS 



THE CRITERION THEATRE, LONDON. 



The Honourable Sandy Verrall Mr. H. V. Esmond. 



Alexander Stoop Verrall 
Montague Jordan 
Herbert, a valet 
Lady Pennybroke 
Miss Vera Laurence 
Mrs. Allaway . 
Dorothy . 
A porter 



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Mr. Eric Lewis. 
Mr. Chas. Esdaile. 
Miss Carlotta Holdison, 
Miss Diana Cortis. 
Miss H. Groves. 
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ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

ACT I 

The Scene ^s the Breakfast-room in the Honble. 
Sandy Verrall's Flat in London. It is most 
charmingly furnished, everything that a luxurious 
man about Town could desire is there. There is a 
door a little l. of c. opening into the Hall of the Flat 
and showing the Hall door beyond. There is another 
door up r. above fireplace, there are deep windows 
r.c. The Hall door bell rings and Herbert, a mos : 
immaculate man-servant goes up and opens the door. 

Man's Voice {outside). Mr. Verrall. 

Herbert. Yes, bring it in. [And two carmen 
bring in a rocking-horse, its head is tied up in brown 
paper.) Put it clown there. 

(The men put it down l.) 

ist Man. I'm a bit of a blood with the 'ounds 
meself. 

(They go out into the Hall.) 

2nd Man (holding out paper to Herbert). Sign, 
matey. 

(Herbert signs paper — then closes the Hall door on 

the men.) 

(Sandy Verrall comes in r.) 

Sandy. Hello ! Herbert ! It's come — splendid. 
I suppose there isn't room for it in the nursery. 

7 



8 ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

Herbert. I'm afraid not, sir. 

Sandy. Never mind, it can stay there, I rather 
like the look of it there. (Taking paper off horse.) 
How exciting to be on intimate terms with a rocking- 
horse again. What did you say the nurse's name 
was ? 

Herbert. Allaway, sir — Ann Allaway. 

Sandy. Ann Allaway. No H., I remember. 
Send her to me, will you ? Did a parcel of books 
come ? 

Herbert (as he goes out). There is a parcel on 
the table, sir. 

(Exit r.) 

Sandy. Good, good. (He goes to table, cuts the 
string with the bread-knife and undoes the parcel.) 
Here we are — The Dumpy Book and The Podgy Book 
and Chatterbox. How I used to loathe Chatterbox 
when I was a little boy, but I suppose it's the right 
thing for little girls to read — but after all, Herbert, 
she may not be old enough to read. (He has been 
looking at the books and has not realized Herbert's 
absence.) Where is Herbert ? 

(Mrs. Allaway, a plump, elderly, most respectable- 
looking female comes in r. and comes down to r. of 
table c.) 

Mrs. Allaway. You wish to see me, sir ? 

Sandy (putting down the books and sitting l.c). 
Oh ! Ah ! Yes. Mrs. Allaway, you're the nurse. 
Now let me see, have you ever been a nurse before ? 

Mrs. Allaway. Yes, sir. 

Sandy. Of course you have, or you couldn't be 
one now, could you? Foolish of me. Now about, 
this little girl, it's a very serious matter, you know. I 
never had a little girl before — it's rather a puzzle for 
me, but I can rely on you, can't I ? 

Mrs, Allaway. Yes, sir. 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 9 

Sandy. I mean you'll see she has her food regu- 
larly, and all that. 

Mrs. Allaway. Yes, sir. 

Sandy. And is there a nice fire in the nursery ? 

Mrs. Allaway. Yes, sir. 

Sandy. I don't suppose she really wants a fire — 
such a nice warm day, but little children like fires in 
their nursery — don't they ? 

Mrs. Allaway. Yes, sir. 

Sandy. And I want her to have everything she 
likes — we won't spoil her, of course, but we'll just give 
her everything she likes. You see, she hasn't got 
anybody in the wide — wide world to look after her 
except you and me. 

Mrs. Allaway. Poor little thing, sir, it do seem 
tragic. 

Sandy. Now will you hear her prayers when she 
goes to bed, or shall I ? 

Mrs. Allaway. I will, sir. 

Sandy. Good. That's all right, and then you'll 
read her to sleep. 

Mrs. Allaway. No, sir, I don't hold with that. 

Sandy. Good, no reading to sleep — don't hold 
with that. Now does she take her meals with me or 
does she take them with you in the nursery ? 

Mrs. Allaway. That's as you please, sir. 

Sandy. As I please, good — it will I suppose de- 
pend on circumstances. I told you I wouldn't get 
a perambulator, because I didn't know her size — if she 
wants one, she must have it. You can get it at the 
stores. I've got arc n (-horse, you see, to be on the 
safe side. She may be here at any moment. Mr. 
Jordan has gone to fetch her. He went off by the 
nine thirty train this morning. (He goes to door c. 
and calls.) Herbert ! Bring me that paper-covered 
book that' j on the table beside my bed. (He comes 
back into room and stands in front of table.) I've got 
a book on the subject of young children, nurse. I 
read most of it last night — quite a lot of it was inter- 



10 ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

esting — very interesting — but a good deal of it didn't 
seem to apply to me, it's called Dr. Chavasse's advice 
to a mother. Do you know it ? 
Mrs. Allaway. Yes, sir. 

(Herbert enters c. with the book — Sandy takes it 
and opens it.) 

(Exit Herbert c.) 

Sandy. Ah, here it is. I wonder why Dr. Cha- 
vasse put so many bits of poetry into it ; they don't 
seem to me quite necessary — still it's a very interest- 
ing book, and it may be useful to turn to in an emer- 
gency — Advice to a Mother. You, of course, are a 
mother, Mrs. Allaway ? 

Mrs. Allaway. Seven, sir. 

Sandy. Seven — ah ! Then I suppose you don't 
need advice. I'm not a mother, so I do. 

Mrs. Allaway. You don't know how old the little 
girl is, sir ? 

Sandy. I haven't the least idea — five, six — seven, 
perhaps eight. Won't it be nice to have a little 
golden-haired, blue-eyed child playing about the flat, 
making the rafters ring with her happy laughter ? 
(Puts book on table.) 

Mrs. Allaway. I don't hold with noisy children 
in a flat, sir. 

Sandy. Oh, you don't hold with noisy children 
in a flat — good. Perhaps you're right, and after all 
there aren't any rafters are there — so it doesn't 
matter whether they ring or not. Well, nurse, I 
think we've done all we can for the moment — all we 
can do now is to wait the little lady's arrival. I think 
I'll go back to my study and read another play. 
(Picks up play from under table.) I'm reading plays 
for a lady friend of mine who is going to take a 
theatre. I'm getting so sick of the job. You do like 
the rocking-horse, don't you ? 

Mrs. Allaway. Some children take to them, some 
don't. 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 11 

Sandy. Oh, she's sure to like riding — her father 
was in a Cavalry regiment — he was a splendid fellow — 
he saved my life, ye know. However, I'll tell you 
about that another time — I must go and read this 
play. 

(Herbert enters c. and comes to the table with some 
breakfast dishes.) 

Sandy. By Jove, I forgot my breakfast, but I'm 
too rattled this morning to think of anything and 
much too excited to eat. I don't think I shall man- 
age anything but a cup of tea and a bit of dry toast. 

Herbert. Very good, sir. 

(Sandy goes off r.) 

Herbert (to Mrs. Allaway). I've never known 
him so excited about anything as he is about th:'s. 

Mrs. Allaway. Well, it's a novel experience for a 
young man. I'll go andTook after my nursery fire, 

(Exit r.) 

[The Hall door bell rings, Herbert goes up and opens 
it, and Alexander Verrall comes in. He is a 
grim-visaged gentleman of about 60, dressed in a 
somewhat old-fashioned style — as he comes in the 
clock strikes 12.) 

Verrall. Twelve o'clock, precisely the time I 
meant to arrive. My nephew at home, Herbert ? 

Herbert. Yes, Mr. Verrall. 

Verrall. That's fortunate. Is Lady Elizabeth 
here ? (Crosses to r.c.) 

Herbert. No, sir. 

Verrall. She's late then — unlike her. (He puts 
his somewhat antediluvian top In J upon the breakfast- 
table.) Your master lunches early. 

Herbert. This is breakfast, sir. 

Verrall. To be sure- — how foolish of me. (The 
Hall bell rings again.) 



12 ELIZA COA/m TO ST \Y 

(Herbert attends to it. Lady Elizabeth Penny- 
broke enters, she is a tall, angular old lady dressed 
well out of the fashion and with a veil that seems to 
inconvenience her nose — her face dimly reminds one 
of a horse.) 

Verrall (advances to her). Ah, Elizabeth. 

Lady Elizabeth (bushing up her veil and peering 
at him). Ah, Alexander, is that you ? I'm early. 
(Sits in armchair l.c.) 

Verrall. You're not — you're late. Herbert, it 
might be as well if you told my nephew that I am 
here, and that Lady Elizabeth is here. (Sits on 
settee r.) 

Herbert. Yes, sir. 

(Herbert goes out r.) 

Verrall. What trouble is Sandy in now ? 

Lady Elizabeth. His letter to me said that he 
had something startling to communicate. 

Verrall. Practically — what he wrote to me. 
(Herbert re-enters and comes down to L. of table c.) 

Verrall (chuckling). Did you tell Mr. Sandy I'm 
here ? 

Herbert. Yes, sir. 

Verrall. What did he say ? 

Herbert. Damn, sir. 

Verrall. Oh ! 

Lady Elizabeth. And what did he say when he 
heard / was here ? 

Herbert. Just the same, my lady, but a trifle 
more softly. 

Verrall. These expressions must convey a 
different meaning in London than they do in the 
country. 

Herbert. Very probably, sir. The master told 
me to tell you what he'd said — and I was to give your 
ladyship and you, sir, his blessing — because he didn't 
mean it. The master is a little put out this morning. 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 13 

(Herbert takes Mr. Verrall's hat from the table.) 

Verrall. That's my hat. (Rises.) 

Herbert. I was about to place it on the rack in 
the hall, sir. Mr. Verrall may come in to breakfast 
at any moment. 

Verrall. I'll take care of it, please, that hat's 
been sat on once already. 

(Herbert gravely handing the hat to Mr. Verrall.) 
Herbert. Indeed, sir ! 
Verrall. With your permission 

(He carefully replaces it on the table. Herbert goes 

out.) 

Lady Elizabeth. The proper place for a hat is a 
head or a hall. 

Verrall. That depends entirely on the hat. 
(Sitting.) 

(The Hon. Sandy Verrall comes in r.) 
Sandy. Auntie, my dear, how are you ? How 
rippin' of you to call at this ungodly hour. (Her- 
bert enters c. with teapot, he puts it on table.) 
Uncle Alexander, you're lookin' top hole as usual. 
Do you mind if I have a little snack ? All right, 
Herbert, I'll manage. 

Herbert. Very good, sir. (He goes out c.) 
Sandy. You have breakfasted, Uncle Alexander ? 
Verrall (snaps). Eight o'clock. 
Sandy. Eight. Top hole. (Sits top of table c.) 
Verrall. Wha*t do you mean by that, sir ? 
Sandy. I haven't the least idea. (He looks 
blandly at Stoop, as he picks hat off table.) Your hat 
May I remove it, it takes my thoughts from my tea. 

(Stoop rises and takes it from him and goes back to his 

seat.) 
Lady Elizabeth. I took the slow train. I 
wanted to think over your communication, I can't 
think when I'm rattled. 



1 4 ELIZV COMES TO STAY 

Sandy (springs from the breakfast-table and goes 
across to Lady Pennybroke.) Can't you, aunt ? 
Nor can I. / can't think when I'm rattled, and oh ! 
my gracious, I'm so rattled now. That's why I 
wrote to you, an extraordinary thing that has just 
happened to me. I've had a sort of legacy left me. 

Verrall (starting forward). My dear Sandy u 

(Rising.) 

Lady Elizabeth. How large ? 

Sandy. I don't know — about the usual size, I 
suppose. 

Verrall. What's that ? 

Sandy. About three feet, shouldn't you think ? 

Lady Elizabeth. Three feet ? 

Sandy. It's a girl — a — a — dear little golden- 
haired girl. 

Verrall (gasping). .• A girl. (Sinks back on to 
settee.) 

Lady Elizabeth. A golden-haired girl. 

Sandy. Yes, isn't it lucky I'm fond of children ? 

Verrall. What are you going to do with it ? 

Sandy. What can I do with it ? 

Verrall. Send it back. 

Sandy. Where to ? 

Verrall. Where it came from. 

Sandy. I would if I could, but I can't. 

Verrall. Have you got it here ? 

Sandy. No, not yet. I've sent Jordon to Berk- 
shire to fetch it. I expect it every minute. 

Lady Elizabeth. And what are we to infer from 
this ridiculous rigmarole ? 

Sandy. There's nothing to infer — that's the extra- 
ordinary part of it. I'll show you the letter explainin' 
my legacy. And you can give me your advice. 
(Going up to door r.) 

Verrall. When did it occur ? 

Lady Elizabeth. And who left it to you ? 

Sandy. f I'm turnin' the spare bedroom into a 
nursery now. 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 15 

Lady Elizabeth and Verrall. What ! ! 
Sandy. Can't help it. No way out, wait till you 
read the letter. I'll get it. 

(The Hon. Sandy hurries off r.) 

(Lady Elizabeth and Stoop turn and gaze at each 
other in bewilderment.) 

Lady Elizabeth. Alexander, what does this 
mean ? 

Verrall. Elizabeth, I smell a rat. (Putting his 
finger to his nose.) 

Lady Elizabeth. You shock me. 

Verrall [chuckles). I didn't always live in the 
country, Elizabeth. 

Lady Elizabeth. Oh, if Sandy has got into mis- 
• chief Gregory might hear of it, and alter his will 

(Sandy re-enters with an open letter in his hand and 
crosses to Lady Pennybroke.) 

Sandy. Now, Aunt Elizabeth, just you cast your 
eye over that — and see what you think of it. 

(She takes the letter in grim silence, adjusts her spectacles, 
and begins to read the letter. Sandy watches her 
breathlessly .) 

Verrall (clearing his throat). I really think, 
Sandy 

Sandy. Do be quiet, please — it's a most extra- 
ordinary letter she's readin'. 

(Lady Pennybroke finishes the letter in silence, then 
returns it to Sandy.) 

Verrall. May I peruse- 



Sandy (handing him the letter). Certainly. You 
see I've shown you this because it's a family matter, 
and (he beams honestly at them both) with all your 
faults you're both sportsmen at bottom. Of course, 
you won't breathe a word of it outside this room. 



16 ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

Lady Elizabeth and Verrall. Not a word. 

(Verrall puts on his glasses and reads — Sandy 
watches him fascinated.) 

Lady Elizabeth. It begins to dawn on me 
that 

Sandy. Be quiet, please. He's readin' it. 

Verrall (as he finishes the letter and returns it to 
Sandy). I am speechless. 

Sandy. Thank you. Can't you picture it, Aunt 
Elizabeth — a little, golden-haired, blue-eyed cherub, 
laughin' and singin' about the place, turnin' every- 
thing into sunshine and all that — it's top hole, ain't 
it, Uncle Alec ? 

Verrall. I saw nothing in the letter about blue 
eyes 

Lady Elizabeth. Or golden hair. 

Sandy. One can't put everything in a letter, one 
must take something for granted. Dear little Major 
Van dam ! 

Verrall. Who's he ? 

Sandy. I believe, not unconnected with the 
Salvation Army. 

Verrall. Van dam, Van dam. (Suddenly with an 
idea.) That's the man on the Matterhorn glacier who 
got you back. 

Sandy. That's the man. Well, you know, he 
saved my life and it was a hundred to one on his losing 
his own in the effort. I gave him my word that any 
mortal thing man could do for him in return, I'd do, 
and he asks me to cherish his little child. 

Verrall. He's dead. 

Sandy. Yes, dead — quite dead — and I've sent for 
the child — who is destitute in a — practically a work- 
house, I suppose, in Reading. I'm so glad he got 
my letter swearing to do it before he died. It must 
have been a relief to him now, as he says here, you 
see (referring to letter) leaves the poor little thing, 
friendless, alone — destitute. 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 17 

Verrall. You have definitely accepted the trust ? 

Sandy. Definitely, of course. He saved my life. 

Lady Elizabeth. Can you afford to increase your 
establishment like this ? 

Verrall. Have you got any means beyond the 
seven hundred a year your father left you ? 

Sandy. Of course I haven't, but I don't worry 
about money, there's a lot of that knocking about 
to be had for the asking. 

Verrall (rising and clearing his throat). Sandy, 
I am not an emotional man, but your attitude in his 
regrettable affair impresses me. You are doing a 
noble thing, I should like to shake hands with you, 
and then say no more about it. 

Sandy (shaking hands). Thank ycu, uncle. 

Lady Elizabeth. You may kiss me, Sandy. 

Sandy. Thank you, aunt. 
(She solemnly hoists her veil and Sandy kisses her.) 

Sandy. By the way, I didn't finish my breakfast ; 
there are such a lot of things happening aren't there ? 
(He goes back to the breakfast table and pours himself 
out some tea). I told you I was rather rattled this 
morning. Now I'll tell you something else— I'm 
going to be married. 

Verrall and Lady Elizabeth. What ? 

Sandy. The future Mrs. Sandy will be here in a 
few minutes, and I'm going to propose to her. 

Lady Elizabeth (aghast). Sakes alive! 

Sandy. What do you mean by saying, " Sakes 
alive." I am going to be married— I've got this child 
so I'm going to get married— it's so splendid to start 
off with a ready-made child— seems to save such a lot 
of trouble. 

Verrall. Trouble ! 

Lady Elizabeth. Bless us ! 
Sandy. My wife and I will have everything we 
want right from the word "go." Top hole I call it. 
Verrall. You don't propose to saddle yourself 
with a wife just because you've got this child ? 

B 



13 ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

Sandy. Uncle Alexander, I've got this child. 
It's only right and proper I should have a wife. I am 
sorry you don't see my point. To-day I am going 
to ask Miss Vera Laurence to marry me. 

Verrall (aghast). The actress ! 

Sandy. You're quite right — the actress, positively 
the only one, Aunt Elizabeth. (He rises and goes to 
Lady Pennybroke and sits on floor r. of her chair.) 
Aunt Elizabeth, I'm in love, awfully in love — yoti 
know what love is — all good women do. 

Verrall (with gathering wrath). You contemplate 
marrying an actress ? 

Lady Elizabeth. Introducing a stage player 
into your home circle ? 

Verrall. Preposterous. 

Lady Elizabeth. Unspeakable. 

Verrall. Your Uncle Gregory will disinherit you. 

Lady Elizabeth (ga.keHng herself together and rising 
a quivering indignant angularity). Is there an 
Ayieated Bread shop in the neighbourhood ? 

Sandy (huffily). There is no such word as Ayreated 
— it's " Aerated," and it's just across the road. 

Lady Elizabeth. Alexander, will you accom- 
pany me there, I feel I need it. 

(Alexander rises and takes up his hat.) 

Sandy. Aunt Elizabeth. 

Lady Elizabeth. Not another word ! (Going up 
to door c.) 

Sandy (appealingly). Uncle Alexander ! 

Verrall. I accompany your aunt. (Going up 
to door c.) You will receive communications from 
your family, as to what measures they will adopt 
under this most unlooked for calamity. 

(They sweep up towards the door — Sandy opens it 
for them smiling — they go out — he follows them into 
the Hall.) 

Sandy. I'll open the hall door for you — there's 
sometimes a little trouble with the latch. 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 1& 

{Hj ops-n thz door and Lady Elizabeth stalks out. 
Sandy corms back into room, Alexander is about 
to follow Lady Elizabeth but Sandy catches him by 
the arm and pulls him back to just inside the door.) 

Sandy. Won't you come back in the course of 
the afternoon and discuss it calmly ? 

Verrall. I will endeavour to do so, but for the 
moment your aunt is obviously upset. 

Sandy. Perhaps after she's had a glass of port 
and a bun she'll be more amenable. 

Verrall. I fear not — but I will endeavour to 
bring her back to talk this marriage over. 

Sandy. Good. 

(Verrall goes out. Sandy shuts the Hall door and 
comes down into the room.) 

(Herbert comes into the Hall with a pile of plays — 
Sandy groans.) 

Sandy. More plays ! ! Put them with the others, 
Herbert. (With a little sigh.) I'm very worried, ye 
know — what with everything — a child for the first 
time — and all these plays to read. (He turns and 
looks at the plays Herbert is holding.) Do you 
think you could judge a play, Herbert ? 

Herbert. I'll do my best, sir. 

Sandy. Just dip into those you've got there, will 
you, and — and report — only dip — don't worry to 
dive. 

Hsrbsrt. Yes, sir. 

Sandy. And — er — the nurse now — your relation 
— Mrs. Allaway — no H. I did remember. (He beams.) 
She has intelligence, eh ? 

Herbert. Yes, sir. 

Sandy. Let her dip too. (Crosses to mantelpiece.) 

Herbert. Yes, sir. 

(There is a pause till Herbert is off c, then the Hall 
door bell rings, Sandy says, " My child — my new 



20 ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

child" Herbert opens door and Vera Laurence 
enters.) 

Sandy. It's 5^011, it's you — oh, my dear ! {Going 
up to meet her.) 

(Vera Laurence, a most attractive, sinuous brunette 
comes into the Hall.) 

Vera. Oh, Sandy, you said that as if I was a 
breath of fresh air. (Crosses down R. to front of settee.) 

Sandy. You are — you are — you are. 

Vera (defiantly). No, I'm not — all the fresh air 
I've got is — is the same thing as oxygen out of a 
cylinder. Oh yes, take my hat — take my old wraps. 
Oh, and, Sandy, isn't that a dream of an umbrella ? 
(He takes her things and places them on back of settee as 
she talks.) It isn't meant for rain, once that was 
opened to the rain it would never go back and be slim 
and elegant again. (Sits on settee.) Oh, Sandy, dear, 
they opened me to the rain too soon. Oh, it's nice to 
sit here — and — and — sort of collect oneself. What 
were you doing when I blew in 

Sandy (sitting beside her). You didn't blow in, I 
knew you were coming. 

Vera. Of course, it was an appointment, I for- 
got, but I kept it. 

Sandy. To the moment. 

Vera. What were you doing when I came punctu- 
ally to my appointment ? 

Sandy. I was tryin' to concentrate on three things. 

Vera. Three 

Sandy. You — your plays — and my little golden- 
haired, blue-eyed child. 

Vera. Oh, I forgot — of course — has she come 
yet? 

Sandy. No, she's being fetched now. She ought 
to arrive every minute. I've fixed the nurse and the 
nursery. I've got two Dumpy Books and a Podgy 
Book. Oh, that's right. You know they must have 
them. I've got a Teddy Bear and a rocking-horse. 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY $\ 

But I feel with so much to think about, that I'm at a 
loose end. 

Vera. I've been at a loose end ever since I can 
remember. I only get any real rest when I come here. 

Sandy (tenderly). You mean that ? 

Vera. You're very real, Sandy. 

Sandy (comes down beaming). I am real, aren't I, 
really ? But nobody seems to understand it but you. 
We're going to be married, aren't we — of course we are. 

Vera. Are we ? I didn't know, you've never said 
a word. 

Sandy. Oh, but you knew it, didn't you ? 

Vera. Yes, I knew it. Bat you might have asked 
me. 

Sandy. I've been so busy. 

Vera. Have you taken the Novelty Theatre for 
me ? 

Sandy. It's nearly settled. 

Vera. Have you been able to get me a play ? 

Sandy (chuckles and rises). Have I been able to 
.get you a play!!! Look! (And he points trium- 
phantly to the stacks of plays) . And yet you read in the 
papers that regular managers can't get plays — why I 
just advertised in the daily papers and in three days 
I got these — more than I really want — of course one 
or two of them may be bad plays, but after all, one 
must expect that, mustn't one — when one first goes 
into management. 

Vera (pensively). Which one of those plays will 
give me what I want ? 

Sandy. I don't know. 

Vera. I want — big things. (She stretches herself 
lazily — beautifully.) I want a " vehicle to express 
myself " 

Sandy. Vehicle to express yourself — quite so. 
Vera. Is it there ? 

Sandy. How can we tell till we read 'em ? 
Vera. Of course — we've got to read them— what 
a. nuisance authors are. 



22 ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

Sandy (sitting beside her again). I say, to jump to 
something more important, have you ever studied 
Dr. Chevasses Advise to a Mother ? 

Vera. Certainly not. 

Sandy (rises and gets book from table c. and returns 
to his seat). Oh, you must, it's most interesting — I 
read it all last night — here we are with this child 
coming and we've had no experience up to now — oh, 
we must study this. (He opens book.) It seems to 
tell you about everything. Now look here, para- 
graph 70, " Have you any-remarks to make on sugar 
for sweetening a baby's food ? 

Vera (curtly). I have no remarks. 

Sandy. Exactly, nor have I, but it tells you here. 
(He reads with great emphasis.) " A small quantity 
of sugar in an infant's food is requisite, sugar being 
nourishing and fattening, and making cow's milk to 
resemble somewTiat in its properties, human milk ; 
but bear in mind it must be used as directed." That's 
in italics, so it's important. 

Vera. When is the child coming ? 

Sandy. Any minute now. That's why I want 
to be ready. Paragraph 92. " Have you any objec- 
tion to the child when it is cutting it's teeth, sue king 
its thumb ? ' : I couldn't answer that, could yc u ? 

Vera. No. 

Sandy. The answer is, " Certainly not, the thumb 
is the best gum-stick in the world — it is convenient — 
it is handy " — that's a little joke — " handy in every 
sense of the word — it is of the right size — neither too 
hard nor too soft — there is no danger of its being 
swallowed and thus of choking the child." Now 
that's sheer common sense, isn't it ? 

Vera. My dear Sandy, you can surely leave all 
this to the nurse, we needn't be bored by it. 

Sandy (a little damped). I didn't mean to bore 
you — I'm getting interested in the idea. I've never 
had a child of my own before. (Rises, puts book on 
table, linn gees over and plays with rocking-horse.) 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 23 

Vera (suddenly). Sandy, shall we be well off when 
we marry ? 

Sandy. Oh no — about seven hundred a year. 
(She makes a face.) 

Vera. Sandy, dear. 

Sandy. Then I come in for Uncle Gregory's bit. 
He told me so. 

Vera. How big a bit ? 

Sandy I've never thought much about it — but 
quite ten thousand. 

Vera. A year ? 

Sandy. Yes — why ? 

Vera (sighing). Nothing, money doesn't matter, 
does it ? 

Sandy. Not a bit. (The bell rings.) My child 1 
My new child ! Do you mind if I answer the bell ? 
Herbert's concentrated on a play. 

(He goes up and opens the door, he looks out into the 
Hall. Herbert is seen coming down the passage 
reading an MS. as he comes. He passes out of sight 
towards the Hall door — Sandy turns with a beam 
towards Vera.) 

Sandy. Did you see that, I believe he's found a 
good one first go off — aren't we lucky this mornin' ? 

(Herbert comes in with the play open in one hand and 
a large Teddy Bear in the other. The bear has a 
label on it.) 

Sandy (delighted). Oh, the Teddy Bear. I'm glad 
it came in time. 

Herbert. Shall I take it to the nursery, sir ? 

Sandy. No, put it on the floor by the door, so she 
can see it first thing — it will be homely for her. (Her- 
bert puts it on floor by table c.) In front of the Hall 
door, Herbert. (Herbert places the Bear in the door- 
way c.) (Pointing to the play that the valet is reading.) 
How do you like that one, Herbert ? 



24 ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

Herbert. The opening is a little rechauffee, as it 
were, sir. 

Sandy. Oh ? 

Herbert. The dramatis personae bears no rela- 
tion to real life, up to now, sir. The first act begins 
with the butler and the parlour-maid dusting the 
drawing-room chairs, sir. 

Sandy. I know — N.G. (He takes the MS. and 
scribbles on the outside N.G., then puts it on floor in 
corner L. where there already is a pile of plays.) Well, 
try another. (And from the pile he hands him more 
MSS.) How does nurse like hers ? 

Herbert. She started on it, sir, but I don't rely 
on her judgment, she seems to hanker for a clown, sir. 

Sandy. Does she only go to the theatre at Christ- 
mas ? 

Herbert. I fear so, sir — she has a cousin who's a 
dresser at Drury Lane, sir. 

Sandy. Oh, really. 

Herbert. Yes, sir. 

(The valet disappears and Sandy goes and poses the 
bear in an attitude of welcome.) 

Vera. How old is your Uncle Gregory, Sandy ? 

Sandy. About fifty-eight, I think. 

Vera (sitting up). Oh my gracious ! 

Sandy. But he doesn't look it. Bless him, you'd 
take him for forty. (He is playing with the bear.) 
He squeaks. 

Vera. Your uncle ? 

Sandy. No, the bear. 

Vera. Isn't he anything of an invalid ? 

Sandy. Bless you, no. He's a trojan. 

Vera. Why he might marry again, and have 
children of his own. 

Sandy. Top hole. 

Vera. But where should we be then ? 

Sandy (pointing to the pile of MSS.). We've got 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 25 

ea~h other and all this material. (The Hall door bell 
rings) She's come ! She has come this time, I feel 
it in my bones. (He flings the door open.) Jordan ! 
At last ! 

(Montague Jordan, a very cheerful plump little man 
of fifty, grips Sandy warmly by the hand and jumps 
over the bear.) 

Sandy (very excited). Got her ? 

Jordan. She's in the cab. 

Sandy (joy f ally to Vera). He's got her — he's got 
her. I sent him all the way to Berkshire to fetch her 
and he's got her. Isn't he a splendid fellow ? 

Jordan (sitting l.c). Can I have a little brandy 
and water ? 

Sandy. Not before lunch. Why the devil did 
you leave the poor little thing in the cab ? 

Jordan. I never had a daughter — can't I have a 
little brandy and water ? 

Sandy (suddenly distressed). You look ill. 

Jordan. I am a little ill. 

Vera (pause) . Shall I go down and f et ch her up ? 

Jordan. It isn't necessary, she'll come up of her- 
self. Not too much water, Sandy. (Sandy has 
gone to the sideboard and poured out some brandy and 
water — Jordan clutches it.) She's coming ! ! 

Sandy (beaming). Let's all stay quite still and see 
what she says when she sees the bear. I love the 
wonder in a baby's eyes — don't you ? 

(A girl of about 18 appears in the doorway in a shabby, 
shapeless frock, too large in the waist, too small in the 
back, too long in the skirt — she is a curious type of 
humanity altogether: her lank hair is drawn tightly 
off her forehead and knotted into a little bun on the 
top of her head, upon it is perched a little straw hat — 
she wears glasses and carries a large untidy brown 
paper parcel — she peers round the ro an instant 

taking them all in, then she advances a little until she 



26 ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

reaches the bear — she gives a little squeal then stoops 
down and looks at it.) 

Eliza. It's stuffed, silly place to sit it. I might 
have trod on it. 

Sandy (grasping Jordan's arm feverishly). Who 
is it ? 

1 Jordan. The legacy — the blue-eyed, golden- 
haired 

Sandy. Jordan ! Jordan ! (And he seizes Jor- 
dan's brandy and water and swallow's -it at a gulp.) 

Eliza. I'm Eliza Vandam, that nice fat gentle- 
man fetched me by train. 

Sandy (l. of rocking-horse). But this — this — can't 
be — it's impossible — read, Jordan, read. (He takes 
out letter and recites it.) " The apple of her father's 
eye ! The darling of bis heart ! " (Wildly to Eliza.) 
Oh, you've been mixed up. You have been mixed up, 
haven't you ? 

Eliza. I don't know— father said a gentleman had 
promised to cherish me. (She turns to Sandy.) I 
recognize you by instinct — you've promised to cherish 
me. 

Sandy. Yes — you've come a long way, won't 
you sit down ? 

(Eliza gets chair from top of table c, drags it to front 
of table and sits down then bends her gaze on Vera.) 

Eliza. You're his sister, I can guess that — you're 
as like as two peas. 

Sandy (rubbing his head). Don't guess any more 
for a minute, do you mind ? I — I'm trying to collect 
myself. (There is a long and awkward pause — at last 
Vera says quietly.) 

Vera. Perhaps Miss Vandam would like to go to 
her room. 

Jordan (rising). To remove the elust of the jour- 
ney, put your hair straight and other little things 
ladies love to elo. 

Eliza. My hair don't worry me. 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 27 

Sandy. Doesn't it, how wonderful ! 
(The Nurse enters.] 

Sandy. Nurse, please take her to her room. 

Eliza. Where's my box ? 

Nurse. It came up by the lift, miss, it's in your 
room — shall I take that ? (Offers to take the bundle.) 

Eliza. Lord, no ! A parcel don't worrit me — it's 
only odds and ends. (Rising and going up stage.) 

Mrs. Allaway. This way, miss. 

Jordan (gallantly). Mysteries of the toilette. 

Eliza. No, it's two petticoats, a camisole, a pair 
of boots that I couldn't stuff into the box. I neel a 
little strange for the moment — but I shall settle down 
— I shall settle down. 

(She goes off r., following the Nurse, Jordan closes 
the door with a gasp and stands with his back against 

a.) 

Sandy. I've sworn to cherish her. 
Jordan. And she means to settle down ! 

(Curtain.) 



ACT II 

The same scene a week later, about 12 o'clock in the 
morning. 

(Jordan sitting l. of table c. in an uncomfortable chair > 
reading a play. He is apparently finishing it — does 
so with a growl and tosses it despairingly over his 
shoulder.) 

Jordan {with almost a sob in his throat). Why do 
they write 'em ? Oh ! there ought to be a law about 
it. (Then he goes hurriedly to the pile of MSS. which 
has increased, and angrily seizes another play — he 
shakes it fiercely.) Come on, you stodgy-looking 
baast — 'I'm at ye (and with a growl he returns to his 
chair, fidgets for a minute). If I don't stick to this 
deuced uncomfortable chair, I shall sleep from sheer 
fatigue. n Bobby's little Lapse." Comedy, 4 Acts. 
Pretty title. How many little laps did Bobby have, 
I wonder ? 

(Herbert enters r., also with MS. He crosses to l., 
puts play on floor and takes another from the pile.) 

Herbert. Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Jordan, but 
Mr. Verrall requires another. 

Jordan (amazed). Another? 

Herbert. The masier started reading shortly 
after 9 this morning. He's got through eleven 
already, sir. I don't fancy he dips so deeply as he 
did early in the week. 

(Herbert takes a few more plays under his arm and 
turns back towards door r.) 
28 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 29 

Jordan (with a gulp). Where's Miss Eliza Van- 
dam ? 

Herbert (l. of Jordan). She confines herself 
very much to the nursery, sir. I gather from Mrs. 
Allaway she indulges her literary tastes in the form 
of a diary for hours together. I should think the 
young lady's impressions would be good light readin', 
sir — in after years. 

Jordan. I shouldn't wonder. 

Herbert. She was a cruel blow to the master, 
sir, she don't seem to " fill his eye " as the saying is. 

Jordan. Fill his eye ? (He lifts his hands in 
despair.) 

Herbert. He's taken to reading these plays very 
strenuous, sir, regards them as an antidote, I fancy, 
sir. I've found his light up when I've called him 
every morning. 

Jordan. Do you mean he reads all night ? 

Herbert. Judging from the plays I pick up round 
the room in leaving, sir, I think he must do. 

Jordan. Herbert, you are in for the reading 
stakes too ? Are your instructions the same as mine ? 
Mr. Verrall told me to put the play back in its envelope 
after I had read it and write V.G. or G. or N.G. — 
very good, good, or no good on it — as I felt, you 
know. 

Herbert. Yes, sir. 

Jordan (sadly to himself). I write " X.G. " quite 
prettily now. 

(Sandy enters from his room r., he looks very tired, 
he has got a small towel round his forehead pinned 
with a safety pin. He comes down straight to table 
c, puts down bundle of CESS, which he is carrying, 
looks at Monty, and shakes his head sorrowfully, 
then says quietly.) 

Sandy. Herbert- — more vinegar — don't let it run 
down my neck this time. 

Herbert (getting vin egar cruet from sideboard) . No, 
sir. 



30 ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

(Sandy sits on sofa and Herbert drops vinegar on to 
the towel on Sandy's forehead.) 

Sandy. Thank you — that's all right — and in 
future, Herbert, I do not wish Miss Vandam to supply 
the pins to put this cloth upon my forehead. You , 
ought to know what I want by now. 

Herbert. The cloth itself was the young lady's 
idea, sir — and the pins — er — well, she understands 
pins, sir. 

Sandy. Well, don't let it occur again. More 
vinegar — this side. 

(Herbert drops vinegar on Sandy's temple. The door 
opens and Eliza peeps in. She watches the s ene 
for a moment. Sandy having drops of vinegar put 
on the towel most carefully by Herbert, and Monty 
Jordan trying to be absorbed in his flay. At last 
site comes in quietly and shuts the door behind her, 
she comes down to Sandy's sofa and looks at him — •• 
he waves Herbert away and sits up and faces her 
in the silence of despair.) 

Eliza. Ain't your head no better ? 

Sandy. My head's quite well, thank you. 

Eliza (r.c). Then, Herbert, take his bandage 
off and save the vinegar. 

Herbert. Yes, miss. {He unpins the towel, re- 
turning the pins to Eliza Vandam. She puts them in 
a difficult skirt pocket. He is in doubt what to do 
with the towel.) 

Sandy (fiercely). Give it to me. 

(Sandy has a ferocious eye on Eliza as he does so. 
Herbert gives him the towel and he stuffs it defi- 
antly into his trouper pocket.) 

Eliza (l. of settee) . I shouldn't put it in my pocket , 
it's damp vinegar. I should put it on the back of a 
chair or something, to dry. 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 31 

(Sandy mechanically takes the towel from his pocket 
and hands it to her. Eliza shakes it out a id h i igs 
it on the back of a chair up stage. As she shakes the 
towel it gives Monty a shower bath. He takes out 
hand kerchief and wipes his eye.) 

Eliza (tenderly to Sandy). There now — you just 
rest — you'll be all right. There's a lot of fight in 
you yet. 

Sandy (hoarsely). Go away. 

Eliza. Yes (Then softly.) You're going to 

cherish me, I'm not afraid of it and I know you ain't, 
father told me. 

Sandy. Don't say " ain't." 

Eliza (a little bewildered) . Eh ? 

Jordan (intervening). Mr. Verrall means it is 
usual to say, " you are not " not " you ain't." 

Sandy (feebly). Don't worry about me, Eliza. 
(He chokes a little.) Just take a little book to read — 
and — I'll take a little rest. (Eliza watches him.) 
Herbert, give her one. 

(Herbert goes gravely and fetches a play from the 
pile. Eliza takes it delightedly .) 

Eliza. Me too. I know all about it, Mrs. Ail- 
away has told me. Here (She motions Herbert 

to move away, then goes to Sandy behind settee, sure of 
not being overheard.) Here — you're tired— you're, 
tired because of me. I know. I've found out— don't 
get tired. I like you — and — and please don't get 
tired because of me — because you know I could clear 
out if I wanted to — but — but somehow — I don't want 
to. I read the Podgy Book you gave me and your 
Dumpy Book,, and I take your Teddy Bear to bed with 
me every night and — and — that all shows that I like 
you — and I hope your head will be better soon. 

(A pause. Herbert stands motionless at the back. 
Jordan is trying to be absorbed in his play.) 



32 ELIZA COMES TO STAY, 

Eliza (she looks round then turns again to Sandy). 
Here — can't we ever talk really alone ? 

Sandy. Oh no, no — oh — do — do please go away. 

Eliza (smiles at him). All right — I'm not a fool. 
(She goes to the door, then turns with a sudden thought 
and comes down r. of settee.) Did you really say you 
didn't like the way I do my hair ? 

Sandy. Yes, I did say it. I don't like it at all, 
but tastes differ — some people may revel in it. / 
don't matter. 

Eliza. You do matter, you are the only thing that 
does matter — I'll see to it- — now you will rest, won't 
you ? (She says it very simply and her voice is really 
a very nice voice though Sandy has not heard it yet.) 

Sandy. Go away. 

(And she goes quietly away, exits r., closing the doov 
behind her in a whisper, as it were.) 

Sandy. Oh, my gad — she's a dreadful proposition — ■ 
she looks straight at me and unsettles me. Herbert, 
I don't drink in the day-time as a rule, but — give me 
a whiskey and soda. 

Herbert. Yes, sir. (He proceeds to get it.) 
Sandy. No — I don't want it — damn everything. 

(Exit Herbert c.) 

Jordan (closing MS.). I have nothing in common 
with " Bobby's Lapse." (Calmly.) N.G., I think. 
(He signs MS.) I'll put it in the corner. (And he 
puts it on a pile of envelopes now about 5 feet high in the 
corner — then lie comes down and sits on the end of the 
sofa occupied by Sandy. He moves Sandy's legs 
to make himself comfortable.) (Sandy is too far bored 
to mind.) You look worried, Sandy. 

Sandy. You'd be worried if you were in my place. 

Jordan. Where did Miss Vera Laurence meet 
your Uncle Gregory ? 

Sandy. Here, the afternoon of the day we got 
engaged. Why ? 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 33 

Jordan. I saw her lunching with him at the Savoy 
yesterday. 

Sandy. You don't say so ! Fancy old Gregory 
askin' her out" to lunch. (He chuckles.) He's a bit 
of a blood, ain't he ? 

Jordan. Don't say " ain't he." 

Sandy. Eh ? 

Jordan. Say " is not he." 

Sandy. What's the matter with you ? 

(The door R. opens quietly and Eliza comes in.) 

Eliza. I don't like this play, Mr. Sandy. I read 
most of it yesterday. (At the sound of her voice 
Sandy has turned on the sofa with a stifled groan, 
throws his feet into Monty's lap, closing his eyes. She 
comes down on tip-toe, to Jordan. She looks ai 
Sandy, then whispers.) Is he asleep ? 

Jordan. Yes, I think he must be, you see he was 
up all night reading. 

(Jordan rises, putting Sandy's feet carefully' on sofa, 
and Eliza goes and cautiously peers at Sandy. 
Monty crosses to c.) 

Eliza. Yes. He's asleep. 

Jordan (taking the MS. and envelope from her). 
You don't like it ? 

Eliza (abstractedly watching Sandy). I don't 
understand the beginning— then I read the last lines 
(She takes the MS. from him and finds the place.) 
The man says : " Misery— misery— that's all our lives 
have led to ! " and then his wife says : " My God, and 
we've tried so hard." And he says : " We have tried, 
Mary," and she says : " Is this the end ? " and he 
says : " I wonder " — and the curtain comes down 
very slowly. 

Jordan (sighs deeply). Thank you. (Takes back 
MS., puts it in envelope, takes out fountain pen.) 
N.G. Oh dear ! (He puts the MS. on pile in corner.) 



34 ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

(A pause, while Eliza looks at Sandy in awe, at last 
she says with a little sigh.) 

Eliza. I like his face, don't you ? 

Jordan. Er — I don't know, I'm sure. 

Eliza. Oh, I do. Perhaps you think it's a little 
pasty — lots of people would, but I like it. I took to 
it at once. 

Jordan. Er (Quite at a loss.) You — er — 

surprise me. 

Eliza. While he's asleep, can I sit here and talk 
to you ? (Very softly.) I wouldn't wake him for 
worlds — so tired — the poor dear (taking Monty's 
arm) but it is a treat to talk to something in trousers 
now and again. 

Jordan. Er — quite so. 

Eliza (crosses and sits on l. arm of settee). I am 
glad he's asleep. I can take him all to pieces and 
digest him comfortably, bit by bit. (Then with a 
little rush of ecstasy.) Oh, I do think he's beautiful, 
don't you ? Don't you just love his hair, it's so 
smarmy — and — my ! ain't he, I mean " has not he " 
got a little foot ? Grey tops to his boots too, I'll be 
bound those boots cost more than eight and eleven . 

Jordan. Er — doubtless. 

Eliza (looking at her own boots). You know I was 
taught it was wicked to make myself look nice. So 
I've never done it. 

Jordan. One wouldn't have thought so, really. 

Eliza. Oh, I could do it, don't you worrit. I'm 
not a fool. 

Jordan. Well, now you mention it — why don't 
you make yourself look nice ? 

Eliza. Well, if it is not wicked for him to look so 
nice — I don't see why it should be wicked for me — 
do you ? 

Jordan. Not at all. 

Eliza (musingly). And yet I don't know — there's 
a lot in it — vou see, he's a man, so he can look as 



ELIZA CMOES TO STAY 35 

beautiful as he is and be quite safe, because he can 
loDk after hinsslf. But if I were to look as beautiful 
as I could — It— it would be dangerous. I should be 
always g3tting iuto trouble. 

Jordan. What a distressing theory. If one may 
ask, ho .v did you get imbued with this — er — phil- 
osophy ? 

Eliza. From old Aunt Helen — father's sister, 

you know. When she was young — she told me 

th'.s herself, you know — oh, she was always telling 

it me— A^aen she was young she was beautiful and 

she wis al.vays making herself more beautiful — 

beautiful cbthes — beautiful shoes (she stroke&$A$ dy's 

boots tenizrly), and so she was so beautifdplmat she 

was always getting into trouble. It got 'so at last 

that her people turned her out and she never had any 

peace at all in her life till she took to being " dowdy ,: 

and she was dowdy and no mistake — but anyhow 

she was safe — she's dead, you know. (Monty. Is 

she — I'm sorry.) She wanted me to be safe from the 

beginning — she said : " You don't know what men are, 

they're ravening wolves — if you want to enjoy your 

me lis and go to bed in peace, stick to your bun, 

my dear." 

Jordan {failing to follow). Eh ? 
Eliza [patting the back of her head). This little 
thing screwed tight at the back. " You've got to 
wear clothes, I know," she says. " But don't look 
at 'em, when you buy 'em, and don't worrit how you 
put 'em on — if you've got merry eyes, no matter how 
well you can see, wear spectacles — pull your curls off 
your forehead and you will be safe." Well, I've done 
it since she told me — and she was right. I'm quite 
safe up to now. 

Jordan. Admirable. Most admirable. 
Eliza (abstractedly toying with Sandy's boot). But 
— but — I wish I coul:l be in danger just for once. I 
feel I should like it so. 
Jordan. My gracious. 



36 ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

Eliza (who has turned a dreamy gaze on Sandy). 
He 'is a beautiful man, isn't he ? He grows on me. 
I think one can be too safe, dont' you ? 

Jordan (flurried). I — I think he's going to wake 
up — hadn't you better go back to your room. ? 

Eliza (rising and following Monty to l.c). Oh, no. 
I don't mind telling you I don't care much for Miss 
Vera Laurence. 

Jordan (not knowing what to do, says). Really, 
you surprise me. 

Eliza (emphatically) . No — I think Miss Laurence 
is a — er — er 

Jordan. A — er — er — charming lady. 

Eliza (calmly). (Putting finger to her nose.) Yes — 
that's exactly what I mean. (Jordan watches 
Eliza with growing alarm.) Do you think he'd like 
me better if I have hair like hers ? 

Jordan. I — er, I don't know. 

Eliza. I wonder where she got hers. Aunt 
Helen wore hair like hers, only she was much fairer — 
it cost a lot of money. (Softly.) Do you think it 
would worry him if I sat quietly in that corner and 
read another ? 

(The hall door bell rings. Eliza darts from sofa, 
seizes a play and seats herself on stool L. Sandy' 
sits bolt upright and hisses at Jordan.) 

Sandy. I've sworn to cherish her. What am I 
to do ? 

Jordan. Don't go to sleep again. 

Sandy. I ivasrit asleep. 

Jordan. I know. 

(Sandy turns round and looks at Eliza. She looks up 
and catches his eye) 

Sandy. Oh, you're there, are you, Eliza ? I'm 
afraid I've been asleep. 

Eliza. Yes, Mr. Verrall. (A pause.) Does my 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 37 

Teading here worrit you, Mr. Verrall ? I read very 
quietly. 

Sandy. Worry me ? Not at all. 

Eliza. Thank you, Mr. Verrall. (She returns to 
her reading.) 

Sandy (to Jordan). I say, under the circum- 
stances, she can't call me Mr. Verrall. 

Jordan. What can she call you ? (Standing with 
■back to fireplace.) 

Sandy. Don't you think she might call me 
<l Uncle " ? 

Jordan (dryly). It's been used in other cases — 
but I don't think it convinces anybody (Sits on r. 
arm of settee.) 

Sandy. I don't care, we'll try it. I say, Eliza, 
don't call me Mr. Verrall — er — call me ' Uncle — 
Uncle Sandy." 

Eliza. Yes. Uncle Sandy — I wonder is it as 
safe as it sounds ? 

Sandy (looking at her in amazement). I beg your 
pardon ! What do you mean ? 

Eliza (demurely.) I don't know. 

Sandy (looks blankly at Jordan). Ye know she 
worries me, she worries me very much. I've bitten 

off more than I can chew. Eliza (Then he 

breaks off.) Look here, I can't call you Eliza, it 
sounds like dust-pans. I — I shall call you — er— 
I shall call you Dorothy. (He turns to Jordan.) 
Couldn't have anything more damned respectable 
than Dorothy, could you ? 

Jordan. Yes, I like Dorothy. 

Sandy. So do I. 

Eliza (looking up demurely). Am I Dorothy ? 

Sandy (fiercely). Yes. 

Eliza. I'm glad. 

Sandy (sits staring at her. She reads intently. 
He turns to Jordan). I say, what are we to do about 
her appearance ? She's a sight. 

Jordan. Remember her aunt. - 



38 ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

Sandy. Blow her aunt. I can't have her about 
the place like this— she's — she's a discredit. She 
doesn't fit anywhere — she sticks in at the front and 
she sticks out at the back and her hair makes my 
head ache. If she's going to sit about in this rocm 
and have her meals with me, she'll have to be altered, 
ye know. 

Jordan. You must put her into some charitable 
home. 

Sandy. How can I when I gave my word I'd 
cherish her like .my own child ? 

Eliza [looking up from her play). You'll like this 
one, uncle. It's got a beautiful name. " How he 
loved her." 

Sandy (rising and clearing his throat). Er — 
Dorothy ! 

Eliza. Yes, uncle. 

Sandy. Are those er — clothes — the — er — things 
you're wearing now — the only clothes you've got ? 

Eliza. Oh, no — I've got lots of others — a box 
full. 

Sandy (eagerly). Er — what are they like ? 

Eliza. Just like these. 

Sandy. Oh, my gracious (Then fiercely.) 

Stand up. 

Eliza (rises, demurely). Yes, uncle. 

Sandy. Turn round. 

Eliza. Yes, uncle. 

Sandy (after surveying her, turns to Jordan). Did 
you ever see anything like it ? It worries me, you 
know — it worries me. For Heaven's sake, stand on 
a chair and look in that glass. 

Eliza. Must I ? I'd rather not. 

Sandy. Why ? 

Eliza. I've seen myself before — I'm such a pity. 

Sandy. You know it. 

Eliza. Oh, yes. 

Sandy. But dash it — you — you've got to look 
respectable — anyhow. 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 39 

JJljza. I'm looking dreadfully respectable. That's 
what's the matter with me. 

Sandy. Well, then don't, don't. Change it. 
Look like anything else, but don't look like that. 

Eliza. Very well, uncle — if you think I shall be 
safe. 

Sandy. Safe ! Oh, my gracious- (He turns 

to Jordan.) Monty, for the love of Heaven take 
her to the Stores and get her some proper clothes. 

Jordan (indignant). Do your own dirty work. 
I'm not a lady's maid. (Goes up to window r.c.) 

Eliza (a). I'm so glad you don't like me like this. 
— if you can spare me, I'll go and do a little piece of 
shopping. 

Sandy. Have you got any money ? 

Eliza. No. Father said you'd cherish me. 

Sandy. I see your point. Thoughtless of me., 
(He goes to table and writes cheque.) You can get every 
thing you want at the Stores round the corner. 

Eliza. I know I can. I was walking in them for 
two hours yesterday. I made a note of all the things 
that would make me dangerous. 

Sandy. Then for the love of the Lord, go and 
make yourself dangerous. Here's a cheque. They'll 
cash it for you in the banking department! 

Eliza. I'll go at once. (Rushes up to door R. and 
calls.) Mrs. Allaway, Mrs. Allaway, bring my hat. 
(And then comes back to c.) I know exactly what you 
want. You want me to look like Miss Laurence. 

Sandy. Not at all. I only want you to make 
yourself look worth looking at. 

Eliza (delightedly looking at the cheque). I will — I 
will — I promise you I will. (Mrs. Allaway enters r. 
with hat. Eliza takes it and goes up to door c.) Oh, 
I am so glad you're leading me astray. (She hurries 
out c.) 

Sandy (blankly). What the devil does she mean 
by that ? 

Jordan (slowly). I don't often -say anything very 



40 ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

serious, but I'm going to say it now. Go abroad. 
(A long pause — the two men look at each other and 
Jordan goes on.) She's not a golden-haired, blue-eyed 
baby — she's a woman — if you can manage it, go 
abroad to-day. 

Sandy (softly). Somehow, I think you're right. 
(He goes and rings bell). Yes, you are right. I've got 
a- nurse for her, she'll have my flat, Herbert is here. 
I'm not breaking my word, she'll have everything she 
wants. 

(Herbert enters.) 

Herbert. Yes, sir ? 

Sandy. Herbert, I am going to Dieppe — pack up. 
I should like to get away as soon as I can — arrange 
it, will you ? (Then almost angrily.) What time do 
the damn trains start ? 

Herbert. The same as usual, sir. There's no 
need for you to hurry, sir. 

(The hall bell rings.) 

Sandy. That's Vera, and I haven't found her 
vehicle. 

(Monty rises. Herbert opens the door and Vera 
comes slowly in and they greet each other.) 

Vera. Sandy, dear, I've dipped into these — 
Good-morning, Monty. 

Jordan. Good-morning, you are looking radiant. 

Sandy (looking at the plays she carries with an 
almost apathetic inquiry). All no good ? 

Vera. Oh yes, no good. I have initialed them. 

Jordan (taking the plays from her). (Sadly.) 
Then I may as well place them on the pile. (He adds 
them to the pile in the corner.) And I must be going 
I don't think your train leaves much before eight, 
so I shall see you again. 

Vera. Train leaves ? (She turns to Sandy for 
explanation.) 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 41 

Sandy. I am going away for a little — I ill tell you 
about it. (Goes up to writing-table and gets several 
letters from drawer a 'id puis them in his pockets.) 

Jordan. Talk it over — I'll be back in an hour or 
so. 

(Exit Jordan.) 

Vera. Sandy, dear, I think your Uncle Gregory 
is a most charming gentleman. (Sits on settee.) 

Sandy. I'm so glad you like him. He's a rum 
'un to look at, but he's a sport. 

Vera (taking off her gloves) . I've had luncheon with 
him since I've seen you. I told him all about my 
ambitions. 

Sandy (crossing and sitting next to her, eagerly). 
Did you tell him about our engagement ? 

Vera. Oh no, only about my ambitions and hopes. 
TT e was awfully sympathetic, said that every woman 
ought to have the right to " express herself " and he 
only wished — he had the chance to work it for me. 
I'll make myself comfy here. (She arranges herself 
on the sofa — Sandy helps her with cushions.) You 
know he made me wonder if the playing of parts is 
•Really the best way for a woman to " express herself.' ' 

Candy. I've often said that to you, Vera. 

Vera. Yes, I know — but one can't express one- 
self in private life — economically — one's got to' have 
a lot of money behind one to do it properly. (She 
looks at him and gives a little sigh, then turns on the 
sofa and has a peevish altercation with a cushion, 
when it is over she turns her eyes sadly to him and says.) 
Reading those plays has been dreadfully boring. 
Talking of things that bore one, how's dear Eliza ? 

Sandy (rising). She's too " grown-up." 

Vera. You mean she's made love to you ? 

Sandy. No — I know nothing — I was asleep. 
(Crosses to R.c.) 

Vera. Sandy (She sits up and looks at Jiim, 

then says with a smile.) Sandy — you are " attracted " 
by her. 



42 ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

Sandy (aghast). My goodness gracious, have you 
seen her ? (Goes back to settee and leans over l. end.) 

Vera. Yes, but men are odd creatures — they take 
strange fancies into their foolish heads — but, of 
course, she may be attractive, / haven't seen it yet, 
but I'm only a woman. (She makes herself more 
comfortable, shifting her cushions.) Where does her 
attraction lie ? I love personal experiences — as an 
artist they show me real life. 

Sandy. Don't talk such nonsense. When we are 
married you'll know what real life is. 

Vera. Oh, I don't want to live " real life," I only 
want to be able to depict it. (A pause.) 

Sandy (solemnly). I believe you've come here to 
make a row. 

Vera. This is one of my bad mornings. 

Sandy. What a funny girl you are, I think you 
want watching. 

Vera. Yes, I'm worth watching. (She rises.) 
Take me to Pascalls, Sandy, I want some gloves. 

(He watches her thoughtfully for a minute while she 
arranges herself at the glass.) 

Sandy, Gloves ? Why, of course, gloves — yes — 
(He goes up to Hall and calls.) Herbert ! 

Herbert (heard off). Sir ! 

Sandy. I'm going out for about twenty minutes, 
but I shan't want any gloves — I mean lunch — lunch- 
ing out. (Vera satisfied with her appearance strolls 
up.) And oh, Herbert ! 

Herbert (voice). Sir! 

Sandy. See that Miss Eliza Vandam has all she 
wants. 

Herbert. Yes, sir. 

Vera. Tender solicitude. . . . 

Sandy. Don't be silly, I promised to look after 
her like my own child. 

(Vera goes out laughing, Sandy following- her, bangs 
the door irritably.) 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 43 

(Herbert comes down into the room and goes to 
dresser. Mrs. Allaway enters r.) 

Mrs. Allaway. Where's Miss Eliza gone ? 

Herbert. Out, something's up, she went, clown 
the stairs three steps at a time. I wonder would it 
worry master if she broke her neck. 

Mrs. Allaway. Miss Eliza has a very affectionate 
disposition when you get. her by herself. 

Herbert. I daresay that's why master's, gone to 
Dieppe in such a hurry. 

(The hall door bell rings. Exit Mrs. Allaway r. 
Herbert goes out c. a is it to Lady Eliza- 

beth and Alexander Stoop.) 

Lady Elizabeth. Ah, Herbert, good-morning. 

Herbert. Good-morning, my lady. 

Stoop. Is my nephew in ? 

Herbert. No, sir, but he will be back in about 
fifteen minutes. 

Stoop. Shall we wait, Elizabeth ? 

Lady Elizabeth. Yes, Alexander. (Sitting chair 
l.c.) 

Stoop. We will wait, Herbert. 

Herbert. Yes, sir. (He is about to take Stoop's 
hat but he snatches it away and goes anl seats himself 
on settee. Herbert goes up to dresser and busies 
himself there.) 

Lady Elizabeth. How is the little child ? I 
hope we may be allowed to see her. 

Herbert. She is out at present, my lady. 

Stoop. With her nurse ? 

Herbert. Yes, sir. 

Lady Elizabeth. Does my nephew find the nurse 
satisfactory, Herbert ? 

Herbert. Quite, my lady. 

Lady Elizabeth. It was an experiment. 

LIerbert. It was, my lady. 

Stoop. But, after all, you have not suffered much 



44 ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

inconvenience from the arrival of the — er — little 
tot ? 

Herbert. No more than must have been ex- 
pected under the circumstances, sir. 

Stoop. Quite so — shouldn't have known what to 
do with it if it had happened to me. 

Herbert. It would have puzzled me, too, sir, 
and I was a family man. 

Stoop. Was ? All dead ? 

Herbert. Oh, no, sir — divorced. 

Lady Elizabeth (horrified). All of them ? 

Herbert. Oh no, only me, my lady. 

Stoop. Perhaps this is hardly the place to discuss 
these details of domestic life. 

Lady Elizabeth. I should have liked to have 
seen the little Elizabeth before we left. 

Stoop. Her name's Eliza, Elizabeth, not Eliza- 
beth. 

Lady Elizabeth. My name's Eliza, Alexander, 
but I prefer to think of myself as Elizabeth. Eliza- 
beth was a Queen, Eliza was a housemaid. 

Stoop. False sentiment. 

(The hall door bell rings. Herbert goes out to open it r 
and Eliza's voice is heard off in tones of delight.) 

Eliza (off). Oh, Herbert, please take these boxes 
to my room. 

Herbert. Yes, miss. 

Lady Elizabeth. A woman's voice ! ! ! 

Stoop (looking at Lady Elizabeth). " Boxes to 
my room ! " 

(Herbert comss from hall laden with large boxes of 
millinery, dress-boxes, etc. He crosses stage and 
exits r. Stoop and Lady Elizabeth watch Her- 
bert off, then turn on each other amazed.) 

Lady Elizabeth. Is our visit opportune ? 
Stoop. Don't leap to conclusions. (He goes and 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 45 

peeps into hall, then comes quickly down) Elizabeth — 
she is in the corridor. 

Lady Elizabeth. What is she like ? 

Stoop. Personally, I fear the worst. 

(Eliza comes into the doorway. She is completely 
transformed — she has a magnificent head of fashion- 
ably-dressed golden hair, surmounted by a large 
Gainsborough picture hat. Her dress completely 
concealed by a long fawn Ascot dust coat. The 
effect is striking, not unattractive, but quite startling 
to people accustomed to dress respectably . She 
stands for a moment nonplussed at seeing the visitors, 
then quickly recovering herself she assumes as far as 
possible the walk, tone and general style of Vera 
Laurence and sweeps languidly into the room.) 

Eliza (l. of table c). How do you do — I didn't 
know we had visitors. 

(Stoop gasps at the word " we.") 

Lady Elizabeth. May I inquire whom it is I 
have the honour of addressing ? 

Eliza. I'm Dorothy — didn't you know ? I live 
here. 

Lady Elizabeth. Who with ? 

Eliza. With uncle. 

Stoop. And who is your uncle ? 

Eliza. The Hon. Sandy Verrall, Esq. 

Stoop. You are not — er — Miss Laurence ? 

Eliza. Oh no — he's going to marry Miss Laur- 
ence. 

Lady Elizabeth (in a sepulchral tone) . What is he 
doing with you ? 

Eliza. He's cherishing me. 

Stoop (rising and taking up his hat). Elizabeth, I 
think — we had better adjourn. 

(Lady Elizabeth rises in a quiver.) 

Lady Elizabeth. I feel with you, Alexander. 



46 ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

(Eliza blandly preening herself — and trying unseen to 
see herself in the glass. Herbert enters r. calmly.) 

Herbert. I've placed the dress-boxes by your 
wardrobe, miss, and the hat-boxes on the bed. 

Eliza. Thank you, Herbert. (Exit Herbert c.) 

Lady Elizabeth (to Stoop). Come, Alexander. 
(Going up to door c. Alexander follows her.) 

Eliza (with great society manner). Oh, I can't 
have you running away like that. Won't you stay to 
lunch ? I'm sure we shall be delighted — we see so 
few people. 

Stoop (choking). I much regret but — er — a pre- 
vious engagement — er 

Eliza. Well, if you must go, of course you must — 
but before you go would you mind telling me if you 
like my hair ? I've not quite made up my m'ni 
whether I do or not — but if you don't like it, I'll 
change it. I only took it on approval. (To Lady 
Elizabeth.) It's so convenient to be able to change 
it any minute — is not it ? 

Lady Elizabeth. I'll never forgive Sandy for 
this. 

(Eliza who has been admiring herself in the glass 
suddenly turns round in an attitude of attention, 
listening.) 

Eliza. Hush! He's coming. (Then to the amazed 
old people she says.) You just stay where you aie, 
don't say a word and I'll hide here and pop out and 
surprise him. (She gets behind curtains up r.c.) 

(Sandy and Vera heard talking and laughing on the 
stairs outside the hall door._ Then the latchkey is 
heard to turn and the door opens.) 

Sandy. Shan't keep you two minutes — then 
lunch and tJncle Gregory. 

(He comes down into the room followed by Vera Laur- 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 47 

ence and is brought up short by the petrified figures 
of Lady Elizabeth and his Uncle Alexander. 
On recovering from his surprise he greets them cordi- 
ally.) 

Sandy. Hullo, Aunt Elizabeth, here you are 
again. Uncle Alec too — splendid. Why, what's 
the matter ? 

Stoop (grimly). Nothing unusual, I suppose. 

Sandy. How fortunate you're here, I can (he 
turns to Vera) take this opportunity to introduce to 
you 

(Eliza pops out coquettishly from the curtains and 
says " Peep Bo " and disappears again.) 

Sandy (aghast). What the devil's that ? 
Stoop (grimly). As if you didn't know. 

(Eliza again pops out roguishly at Sandy — " Peep 

Bo.") 

Sandy (looking amazedly atnind). Did she say 
" Peep Bo " at me ? 
Stoop. She certainly did. 
Sandy. Who is it ? 

(A grim silence is the only answer he gets from the old 

people.) 

Sandy. A friend of yours ? 

Stoop. Sir 

Sandy. You must have brought her with you ; I 
know nothing of her. 

Stoop. Really " Uncle Sandy " ! (Crosses to 
fireplace.) 

Sandy (jumps). What ! (Then wheels towards the 
curtains in a fury.) Come out of that— out of it at 
once, you — you terror. 

(Again Eliza puts her head . out coquettishly.) 



48 ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

Eliza. " Peep Bo," I see you. 

Sandy. Yes, and I see you. Come here at once. 

(Amid a solemn pause, Eliza comes slowly and de- 
murely down on Sandy's right, Vera is on his left.) 

Sandy (fiercely pointing). What have you got on 
your head ? 

Eliza. My hat — and my hair. 

Sandy (stamps furiously). That's not your hair ! 

Eliza (suddenly blazes out and points at Vera). 
And that's not hers ! ! 

Vera (wheeling on Eliza). Upon my word ! 

Sandy (between the two). Vera, I beg 

Eliza. If she'll take off her hair, I'll take mine — 
that's fair ! 

Vera. You silly child, how dare you ! 

Eliza. I dare anything. 
(Sandy lifts his clenched fists above his head with a 

stifled groan. Vera checks him with a languid smile.) 

Vera. Don't let her distress you, Sandy — let us 
humour her. (She smiles sweetly at Eliza.) Will you 
take yours off first or shall I take mine ? 

(Eliza glares at her for a moment, then with a snort of 
defiance, she radiply removes her hat and hair and 
hurls them to the ground as if they were a Herald's 
glove, standing revealed in all the glory of her little 
bun. Vera looks at her with a slow smile, then lan- 
guidly removes her hat, which she puts carefully on 
chair) 

Sandy. Vera, Vera, I won't hear of it. 

Vera. I look very well with my hair down. (And 
she removes a pin or two and shakes down the abundant 
wealth of her hair.) 

(Eliza stares at her amazed, then gives a despairing sob.) 

Eliza (flashing defiance at Vera). It's real, it's 
real, but I don't care ! This is a fight between us. 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 



49 



Sandy (half frantic). What for ? 

Eliza. For you. 

Sandy (with a gasp). Dieppe! Dieppe I (Rushes 

lit C . ) 

(Quick Curtain.) 



ACT III. 

Scene. The same. A month later. 

(The hall door bell rings and Herbert opens the door 
to Lady Pennybroke.) 

Lady Pennybroke. Good-morning, Herbert. Is 
Miss Dorothy in ? 

Herbert. No, my lady. Miss Dorothy is at the 
photographers. 

Lady Pennybroke. Is she likely to be long ? 

Herbert. I shouldn't think so, my lady. She's 
been there close on three hours. 

Lady Pennybroke. Three hours. 

Herbert. Miss Dorothy takes a remarkable 
interest in her appearance, my lady. 

Lady Pennybroke. She's quite right. Sakes, 
where do your flowers come from ? (She prods a 
beautiful bunch of roses that lies on the table still wrapped 
in tissue paper.) 

Herbert. Mr. Jordan sends them for Miss 
Dorothy. 

Lady Pennybroke. Montague Jordan. 

Herbert. Yes, my lady — he sends them every 
day. Miss Dorothy's room might be a florist's shop. 

Lady Pennybroke. Herbert, you interest me. I 
shall stay to lunch. (Goes to armchair l.c. and sits.) 

Herbert. Yes, my lady. 

(And as he leaves the room by door c, Mrs. All aw ay 

enters r.) 
50 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY • 5I 

Lady Pennybroke. Ah, Mrs. Allaway, Miss 
Dorothy's at the photographers, I hear. 

Mrs. Allaway. Yes, my lady — she's anxious to be 
took as a type of English beauty for an illustrated 
paper. She wants Mr. Verrall to have a copy sent 
him while he's abroad. Here are some proofs that 
came home yesterday, my lady. (Goes to writing table, 
gets photos and hands them to Lady Pennybroke.) 

Lady Pennybroke (studies them). It's a remark- 
able metamorphosis in a month — the girl has achieved 
style — and an air. It's wonderful what a good dress- 
maker can do with raw material. 

Mrs. Allaway. Miss Laurence took her in hand 
as soon as Mr. Verrall went abroad, my lady ; not 
that Miss Dorothy wouldn't have improved of' her- 
self She's as quick to catch on to anything as a 
magpie. (Takes photos back to writing table.) 

Lady Pennybroke. Does she see much of Mr. 
Montague Jordan ? 

Mrs. Allaway. He's been giving Miss Dorothy a 
lesson on the piano morning and afternoon, every day, 
for the past three weeks, an hour a lesson. She can 
very nearly perform the " Blue Bells of Scotland," if 
she takes it slow and deliberate. Miss Dorothy 
hopes to have it perfect against Mr. Verrall's return. 
Lady Pennybroke (dryly). Let's hope she will— 
my nephew is very musical. By the bye, have you 
heard when he is expected back ? 
Mrs. Allaway. No, my lady. 
Lady Pennybroke. He has been gone a month. 
Mrs. Allaway. Just a month, my lady. (Clock 
starts to strike 12.) 

Lady Pennybroke. And Miss Dorothy has been 
seeing a great deal of Miss Laurence. 

Mrs. Allaway. They're as thick as thieves, if 
your ladyship will pardon the expression. 

(The kail bell rings, as . the clock strikes.) 



52 ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

That's Mr. Jordan, my lady, each morning at twelve 
on the strike. 

{Exit r.) 

(Montague Jordan heard from the hall.) 

Montague. Morning, Herbert. Anything further s 
heard of your master ? 

Herbert (off). We expect him home by the end 
of the week, sir. 

Montague. Ah, good. 

(He enters c.) 

Ah, good-morning, my dear Lady Pennybroke. 
(Puts hat and stick on chair above writing table and 
comes down to Lady Pennybroke.) 

Lady Pennybroke. Good-morning, Monty. I 
hear you give Dorothy music lessons. 

Montague (a little abashed). I — er — Dorothy was 
extremely desirous to learn the piano and I thought 
that any little thing I could do, I'd do — for every- 
body's sake. 

Lady Pennybroke. Is she a promising pupil ? 

Montague. Most — -she has almost mastered some 
minor melodies already, and, if I may say so, rendered 
" The Blue Bells of Scotland " with a depth of feeling 
that I find quite unusual in that piece. 

Lady Pennybroke Have you fallen in love with 
her, Monty ? 

Montague (taking off his gloves). Now how re- 
markable that you should ask me that. I ask myself 
the same thing every morning. 

Lady Pennybroke. If she has come on like this 
in one month — what will she be like at the end of 
six ? 

Montague. I tremble to think. 

Lady Pennybroke. Well, I won't disguise from 
you the fact, that from every point of view, I think it 
would -be a good thing for you to marry her, because 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 53 

under her altered condition it is impossible for Sandy 
to go on " cherishing " her indiscriminately. 

Montague [goes up and puts gloves in hat). I — er — ■ 
I er — quite agree with you. I feel it 1 is undeniably 
somebody's duty to marry her immediately — and — 
er — putting my own feelings entirely on one side, I 
feel that as Sandy's oldest friend I'm the man for the 
job — post. 

Lady Pennybroke. Has Dorothy any idea of 
your intention ? 

Montague. I have essayed to arouse her suspi- 
cions in the usual way. I send her flowers every 
morning, and whenever I happen to catch her eye, 
I endeavour to hold it with meaning 

Lady Pennybroke. I should pass from the realm 
of vague preliminaries now. I should adopt a more 
definite attack. 

Montague. Again it's remarkable you should say 
that to me, it's what I said to myself coming up in 
the lift this morning. (Crossing to r.) 

(Dorothy comes in looking most attractive, charmingly 
gowned in the best possible taste. She puts hand-bag 
and sunshade on table c, then down to Lady Penny- 
broke.) 

Lady Pennybroke {greets her affectionately). Ah, 
my dear. 

Dorothy. I'm so sorry I was out — good-morn- 
ing, Professor. I'm not so very late, am I ? I prac- 
tised " Blue Bells of Scotland " for an hour before 
breakfast this morning, and, please, I'd better change 
that tune now, because the old gentleman in the flat 
below complained twice yesterday and sent up his 
butler this morning to ask me to stop when I'd hardly 
begun. 

Montague. Did you stop ? 

Dorothy. How could I ? I tell you, I'd hardly 
begun. (She goes to the writing-table and takes up an 
unfinished letter.) I've written to Uncle Sandy to 



€4 ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

tell him I've learnt the piano, and after I'd been 
photographed I went to Harrod's and bought a 
violin 

Montague. What for ? 

Dorothy (c.) Well, there wasn't one in the 
house. I asked Herbert. You see, I heard Mr.. v 
Kubelik at the Queen's Hall yesterday, and I thought 
it was such a pretty accomplishment that I'd learn 
it too. Uncle Sandy dotes on music — so this after- 
noon you can come and give me lessons on that, it 
will be a nice change for the old gentleman down- 
stairs, won't it ? 

Montague; I — er — I am not very familiar with 
the — er — violin — but (very cheering) we can make a 
start, we can make a start. 

Dorothy. I'll just put a postscript to Uncle 
Sandy, that I can do the piano and hope to do the 
violin before he comes back. (Catches sight of flowers 
on table c, picks than up and smells them and shah-es 
her head at Monty, then puts flowers down, kisses the 
back of her hand and blows it to Monty. She goes to 
the writing-table and writes.) 

Lady Pennybroke (rises, crosses and whispers to 
Monty). I'll leave you together — ask her to marry 
you now. 

Montague (aghast). Now ! ! 

Lady Pennybroke. Now — no time like the 
present. 

Montague. No, no, I couldn't — it — it's too early 
in the morning. I tell you what, dear Lady Penny- 
broke, you tell her that my intentions are honourable 
and all that — break it to her for me, remind her of 
my house in Kensington Square and my little shoot- 
ing box in Scotland — pave the way, as it were. I'm 
not attractive in myself — perhaps (giggles), but my 
surroundings are most adequate. (Then as it were 
to himself, overawed by the mental picture.) I'm in love 
and I'm proposing, most unusual. I've never done 
such a thing in my life before. I — I'll go fcr a little 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 55 

brisk walk to — to brace myself — and — and then I'll 
come back and do it during the lesson. (Going up 
behind settee for his hat, Lady Pennybroke calls him 
back, he comes down l. of table.) 

Lady Pennybroke (r. of table). I have your full 
authority to arrange this match ? 

Montague. My full authority. I am convinced 
that I am quite definite about it. (Goes up and gets 
hat and stick.) 

Lady Pennybroke. Go and take your little walk 
then. 

Dorothy (rising and crossing to l.c. with letter in her 
hand). The violin was 185. 6d., some others cost more 
— but I thought that would do to learn on — it's only a 
small-sized one, you know. When I've learnt how to 
do it, I'll get one of the full-sized ones — they're that 
high, as tall as I am very nearly and twice as fat. I 
should think it's better to play those big ones in the 
open air. 

Lady Pennybroke (sitting on settee). I shall ex- 
pect you back in about half an hour, Monty. 

Montague. Half an hour, delightful. 

Dorothy. Going ! how about my lesson ? 

Montague (slightly embarrassed, up at door c). I 
have a little commission to execute for Lady Penny- 
broke, but I shall return in half an hour precisely, so 
it must be regarded as, shall we say, merely Au 
Revoir. 

(He goes out.) 

Dorothy (taking off hat as she goes up stage, puts it 
on table up r., then crosses to fireplace and places stool 
in front of fender, stands on it and arranges her hair in 
glass) . That is a. kind little man — he does appreciate 
me. 

Lady Pennybroke. Do you appreciate him ? 

Dorothy. Oh, yes, I dote on him. I dote on 
every one who appreciates me. 

Lady Pennybroke. How would you like to have 
him all to yourself ? 



56 ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

Dorothy. He'd be very useful. 

Lady Pennybroke. I mean, how would you like 
to marry him ? 

Dorothy (turning and facing Lady Pennybroke, 
gasps). Holy Christmas ! 

Lady Pennybroke. I beg your pardon. 

Dorothy. Now don't you go putting ideas like 
that into his head. 

Lady Pennybroke. It's in his head already. 

Dorothy (whistles, then jumps off stool and crosses 
to a). My ! ! — if Uncle Sandy heard that wouldn't 
he be furious ? 

Lady Pennybroke. Sandy would be delighted, 
it would relieve him of a great responsibility. 

Dorothy. What do you mean ? 

Lady Pennybroke. I mean it would relieve him 
of you. 

Dorothy (goes to Lady Pennybroke). Am I a 
great responsibility ? 

Lady Pennybroke. Of course you are. 

Dorothy. Does — does Uncle Sandy want to be 
relieved of me ? 

Lady Pennybroke. Of course he does. 

Dorothy (backing to a). Why does he — I love 
him. I'd — I'd die for him — I — I'd let him jump on 

me, if he wanted to 

| Lady Pennybroke. He doesn't want to — if only 
you were safely married he could come home again. 

Dorothy (c, looking at Lady Pennybroke in 
bewilderment). You mean I've driven him from his 
home ? 

Lady Pennybroke. I honestly believe so. 

Dorothy. Oh — oh — ah. But I'm different now — 
he's sure to come back when he sees my photograph. 
(Sitting on arm of settee.) 

Lady Pennybroke. Not at all — the more attrac- 
tive you are — the more he'll have to stay away. 

Dorothy. Well, that's the foolishest thing I've 
ever heard in my life. 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 57 

Lady Pennybroke. Montague Jordan has a 
charming house in Kensington Square, as you know, 
you would be mistress of that. He also has a house- 
boat at Staines or somewhere — it might have been a 
shooting-box — I don't know, it's all so sudden. He 
would be your devoted slave, and would make life 
very happy for you. 

Dorothy. How could I be happy away from 
Uncle Sandy ? 

Lady Pennybroke (in a whisper). Sakes alive, 
girl, don't you know what life is — what men and 
women are ? 

Dorothy (slowly). Not quite, there's something 
at the back of my head that troubles me. Uncle 
Sandy said he was going to cherish me — well, why 
doesn't he ? — after I've made up my mind to be 
cherished by Uncle Sandy — I don't seem to hanker 
for Mr. Jordan. 

Lady Pennybroke (making up her mind to put 
things clearly to the child's mind). Sandy promised to 
cherish Miss Laurence, they're going to be married. 
He can't cherish two people at once, it's against the 
law. You marry Monty and cherish him. Sandy 
will do likewise with Miss Laurence — but stay in 
Sandy's flat, you can't. A man is only allowed by 
law to cherish one woman, and Sandy was booked 
before you came. Marry Monty and spare Sandy 
trouble. 

Dorothy (much distressed). Will it spare Sandy 
trouble ? 

Lady Pennybroke. Of course it will — it will 
spare us all. 

Dorothy (rising and crosses to a). (Draws a long 
breath. Sets her teeth and makes up her mind.) Very 
well. I'll marry Monty — if it will spare Sandy 
trouble — but it does seem a pity, doesn't it, when — 
when I've wasted so much time on getting myself 
right. (She walks up and down thinking — at last she 
says suddenly.) I wish I could forget how to play the 



58 ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

" Blue Bells of Scotland " now, but I never shall — it's 

sort of burnt itself in (She walks up and down 

again.) Mr. Jordan won't want to hear it any more — 
he's heard it. (Then suddenly with great vehemence, 
she turns to Lady Pennybroke.) I believe you — I 
trust you — you belong to a world I don't know. Tell 
me. will it help Sandy if I marry Mr. Jordan ? 

Lady Pennybroke. Yes. 

Dorothy (shutting up like an oyster) Very well — 
I'll marry him. 

Lady Pennybroke. That's good — he'll be de- 
I'ghted. 

Dorothy (up l. by window, after along pause). I 
shan't, I hate the idea. I don't know much about 
married life — but somehow — I have views, it's instinct 
— that's all I've got, instinct. I belong to Uncle 
Sandy. Mr. Jordan can teach me music, and I'll 
marry him — but I belong to Uncle Sandy — he — he has 
taught me something I don't understand. 

Lady Pennybroke. Well — I'm an old woman 
and I see what you mean in a sort of dim way — but 
it's no good being sentimental. Marry Monty, and 
all will be well. 

Dorothy. I will — poor Monty — poor me. 

Lady Pennybroke. Happy Sandy. 

Dorothy. Yes, that's all I'm thinking about. 
(Then with a sudden flash crosses to L. of table C: and 
picks up flowers). Do you think he's going to cherish 
Miss Laurence. 

Lady Pennybroke. That is the present under- 
standing. 

Dorothy (throws flowers on to table in a temper). 
It's a pit}^, she's no good. 

Lady Pennybroke. She has been very good to 

you. She has — has (at a loss for a word) well, 

she has given you style — made you — presentable. 

Dorothy (sitting on edge of table a). Oh yes, she's 
made a difference to my outside, but she hasn't 
changed my inside. I'm still me just the same, no 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 59 

matter if I do look dangerous. {Then with another 
ft a h.) Don't 3^011 think I'm a friend of hers, because 
I'm not, she's been very useful to me, very kind, oh 
very, very kind, but I know what I know. {And she 
puts her fingers alongside of her nose — winks and nods 
wisely.) 

Lady Pennybroke {stiffly). That's a very vulgar 
action, I shouldn't repeat it. 

Dorothy (a). I won't. Uncle Sandy doesn't 
know Miss Laurence — I've smelt her out, her outside 
is beautiful but her inside is rot, she doesn't care a 
button for anything but herself, her dresses, her food, 
her beastly old hair — is her nose powdered enough 
or too much. Uncle Sandy oughtn't to be allowed 
to want to cherish her — somebody ought to tell him. 
{Crosses up L. to window.) 

Lady Pennybroke {stiffly). When you're safely 
married to Mr. Jordan, you can tell him yourself. 

Dorothy {coming back to a). Well, as you've 
arranged this marriage for me, you may tell Mr. 
Jordan that I'm not going to let him kiss me or any- 
thing like that. I don't hold with it and I'm sure 
Uncle Sandy wouldn't like it either. 

(Dorothy walks up and down stage trying to control 

herself.) 

Lady Pennybroke. I have not arranged this 
marriage. It is Mr. Jordan's own wish — and it is 
a remarkable match for you, and a very good thing 
for him, for up to now his only serious aim in life las 
been collecting birds' eggs — unsuccessfully. (Dorothy 
sits on arm of chair l.) And above all, it will make 
poor dear Sandy a happy man again. 

Dorothy {choking). Do you mind not talking 
any more about it just now ? I'm not saying much. 
I'm trying to be a lady, and self- controlled, but 
{she suddenly break ely) th< re's a hell of 

a lot going on inside me — that nobody knows about, 
and 



60 ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

(Lady Pennybroke is appalled, Dorothy explains 

feebly.) 

That's the trouble with me. I overflow, I can't help 
it. I'll get it under — in time — give me time. I've 
rushed myself into goodness and sometimes I feel I'd 
better sit still for a bit and breathe. You see, I've 
developed my outside first and my inside hasn't quite 
come up to the scratch as yet — but it's going to — it's 
got to, you needn't worrit. 

Lady Pennybroke. No. I won't " worrit." 
(Suddenly realizing what she's said.) Oh, I am' sure 
there's no such word — I don't know why — but I love 
you. 

Dorothy (after a pause, rises and goes slowly to her 
and kneels beside her and kisses her hand.) That's 
the best thing I've heard in a month of Sundays — 
you love me. Oh, don't say it again — just let me be 
like this for a minute. (And she holds the old lady's 
hands tight against her face and whishers.) You love 
me— somebody loves me at last. (Then she breaks 
into a little nervous laugh, half a sob.) Somebody 
loves me — now we shan't be long. 

(The bell rings.) 

Dorothy. That's Monty. I've learned to know 
his ring. It's such a " I hope nobody'll hear me " 
sort of ring. 

Lady Pennybroke. A sidelight on a man's 
character that speaks volumes for his fitness for the 
married state. He will probably put his views before 
you now. 

Dorothy (directly). You love me, you said just 
now, and — and — you think I ought to marry him. 

Lady Pennybroke (flcs f 3red). It's a dreadful 
mud :1b. I'm afraid I'm only thinking of Sandy's 
comfort. 

Dorothy (sbvly). So am I. (Rinng and sits on 
edge of table c.) 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 61 

(Montague comes in c. timidly, puts hat on writing 
table hnd goes down l.) 

Dorothy. Back again ? You weren't long. 

Montague. No. I didn't go far. 

Dorothy. How far did you go ? 

Montague. Only as far as the Hall door. It was 
raining, and as I had no umbrella, it did not seem 
expedient to venture fruther. 

Dorothy. Why didn't you take a cab ? 

Montague. I did think of it — but as I didn't want 
to go anywhere in particular a cab seemed a useless 
extravagance. 

Lady Pennybroke (rising). I have been having a 
little chat with Dorothy on a subject very near your 
heart, Monty. 

Montague (shyly). Oh, you're most welcome, I'm 
sure. 

Lady Pennybroke. And now I will leave you to 
talk it over between yourselves. I presume — there 
is a fire in the drawing-room. (She takes up news- 
paper.) As you will not need the daily paper I will 
take it with me. 

(Montague goes up and opens the door for her. She 
goes out gravely r., Montague closing the door 
behind her.) 

(Dorothy sits pensive on edge of table c.) 

Montague (coming down c., breaking the ice). I 
don't want to seem too bold, but — er — in the words of 
the old saying — a penny for your thoughts. 

Dorothy (dreamily, as if talking to herself). I was 
thinking what an awful waste of time it's been. 

Montague. What ? 

Dorothy. The making myself dangerous. 

Montague. Oh, don't think that. 

Dorothy. After all that swotting with new clothes 
and new hair and at least fifteen new hats, and then 
to come a mucker like this at the finish. 



62 ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

Montague. I do not quite follow you. 

Dorothy (crossing to settee and sitting R. end). 
Think of the poetry I've learnt, think oi " Blue Bells 
of Scotland " till I got blood to the head. Think of 
my tight stays. 

Montague. Really, Dorothy. 

Dorothy. And trying on scores of shapes and 
kinds till I got a pair that fixed me. Think of all 
the kid gloves I've bust up the back before I got my 
hands to melt properly. Oh, oh, oh, what a cruel 
waste it seems. 

Montague. Really, Dorothy. 

Dorothy. Yes, it is — it is — even you must realize 
that. 

Montague. If I could see your point, I would 
doubtless agree with you — but I don't see your point. 

Dorothy (with a sudden outburst). It hasn't been 
easy — it hasn't been easy, I don't care what anybody 
says. I've swotted and swotted for weeks to be a 
lady, and now that I am a lady I'm thrown on the dust 
heap. 

Montague (aghast). Who said so ? 

Dorothy. Lady Pennybroke. 

Montague. You must have entirely misunder- 
stood her. Lady Pennybroke is well aware that you 
have at least one friend who would not allow you to 
be subjected to such a proceeding ; I fear Lad}/ Penny- 
broke has not approached you on the little matter that 
is on my mind. (Sits l. of her and takes her hand) 
You have no reason to regret anything, Dorothy. 
You have proved yourself a young woman of remark- 
able force of character — by your own efforts you have 
in a few short weeks evolved from what appeared at 
first sight most unpromising material, you have 
evolved, I say, a finished article that would prove 
an ornament to any gentleman's home. 

Dorothy (pulling, her hard away). I won't be an 
ornament in any gentleman's home, although I'm 
only a fresh made lady. I'm just as particular as a 



ELIZA COIvIES TO STAY 63 

stale one — one that's been one always, I mean. How- 
ever, I suppose what I feel about things doesn't 
matter — my life has been all like that — I ought to be 
getting used to it by now. 

Montague. If you will marry me — what you feel 
will be the only thing in life that does matter. 

Dorothy (pause — then suddenly). Shall I have 
to be married in a church ? 

Montague. It is usual. 

Dorothy. What church ? 

Montague. I have not allowed my thoughts to 
leap so far — am I — Dorothy — am to I understand 
that you — you will marry me ? 

Dorothy (in a dull voice). Of course — didn't you 
fix it all up before you asked me ? 

Montague. I — er — hoped 

Dorothy. You must have known all the time 
I couldn't say no. 

Montague (taking her hand and kissing it). 
Dorothy, my dear, you — you enchant me. 

Dorothy. What on earth you want to do it for I 
can't think. It seems silly. (Monty drops her hand.) 
Ah, well — we won't talk about it. After all, it doesn't 
matter much to us, does it — we shall get over it in 
time. 

Montague. I — er — I may be in error— but you 
scarcely seem to me to be approaching our union in • 
the right spirit. 

Dorothy. I haven't got any spirit now. I'm just 
going back to the old me. 

Montague. I — er — I — er — am a little unaccus- 
tomed to — er — interviews of this momentous charac- 
ter. I have never asked any one to marry me before — ■ 
it — er — is perhaps a little agitating to both parties. 
Shall I leave you for a little ? 

Dorothy. Yes. 

Montague. Yes. (Rising and crossing to l.c.) 
Perhaps it would be well. I will come back when our 
mental balance is a little restored — and — and 



64 ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

(Crosses to her.) When I come back, will you come 
out with me to lunch at the Carlton — and — and then 
we will drive to my little house in Kensington Square 
— and you shall see all the treasures — which — which I 
lay at your feet. 

Dorothy. Shall I see your collection of birds' 
eggs? 

Montague. Why, of course. I will keep nothing 
from you. 

Dorothy. Ain't I lucky ? 

Montague. Not luck}^ — worthy is the word. Will 
you be ready when I come back ? (Gets hat and stick.) 

Dorothy (rising listlessly) . Why should you bother 
to go ? Wait for me here. I'll go and get ready now. 

(As she reaches the door r. Lady Pennybroke comes 

in.) 

Lady Pennybroke. Had your little talk ? 
Dorothy (in a dull voice). Yes ! 
Lady Pennybroke. My dear. (She kisses her.) 
Dorothy. Monty is taking me out to lunch. I'm 
going to get ready. 

(She goes out R.) 

Lady Pennybroke (looks at him curiously. There 
is a pause — she sits down then looks at him again). 
Satisfactory ? 

Montague (sits l.c., then stiffly). Yes and no. I 
cannot fathom an allusion to a dust heap. 

Lady Pennybroke. I do not follow you. 

Montague. She said you said that now that she 
was a lady she was thrown upon a dust-heap. 

Lady Pennybroke. Dust heap ? 

Montague. You apparently referred to it. 

Lady Pennybroke (sitting on settee). Why should 
I refer to a thing I have rarely, if ever, seen ? 

Montague. Precisely the question I put to my- 
self — so unlike you. 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 65 

Lady Pennybroke. Putting side issues away, 
you had better telegraph your news to Sandy — it 
will relieve his mind. 

Montague (rising). I will do so at once. 

(He goes to writing-table and takes telegraph form, goes 
to table c, sits l. of it and writes.) 

Montague. How wonderful to find the right 
thing in the right place, in anybody's house but one's 
own. (Writes and reads telegram.) " Dear Sandy. 
I am going to marry Dorothy next month. Congratu- 
late me. Monty." Terse and to the point, eh ? 

Lady Pennybroke. Admirable, but — twopence- 
halfpenny a word. I should cut out " dear." 

Montague. Perhaps you're right— cut " dear." 
(He does so.) 

Lady Pennybroke. " Sandy " is unnecessary. 
Cut " Sandy." 

Montague. Sandy unnecessary — cut Sandy. 
(Does so.) 

Lady Pennybroke. Read it again. 

Montague. "lam going to marry Dorothy next 
month. Congratulate me. Monty." 

Lady Pennybroke. Admirable — stay ! I marry 
Dorothy next month. Congratulate me. Monty. 
Why " I am going to marry " — redundant ! 

Montague. Perhaps you're right. (He alters 
telegram — writes.) I marry Dorothy next month. 
Congratulate me. Monty. 

Lady Pennybroke. Admirable — but why " con- 
gratulate me"? 

Montague (alters wire). Perhaps you're right — 
cut congratulate me. (Does so.) Now how does it 
go ? "I marry Dorothy next month. Monty." 

Lady Pennybroke. Admirable, but why next 
month, when it might be this or the month after 
next ? 

Montague. Perhaps you're right. Cut next 
month. (He does so.) 

E 



66 ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

Lady Penn ybroke . Has he got the f acts — read it . 

Montague (does so). I marry Dorothy. Monty. 

Lady Penn ybroke. Admirable. I wonder 
would it be wise to cut another word ? 

Montague. Eh ? 

Lady Pennybroke (drily). Dorothy ! 

Montague. Dear lady, then it would be meaning- 
less. (Reads.) " I marry Monty." (He looks at her 
blankly.) 

Lady Pennybroke. You're quite right. I was 
letting my thoughts run away with me— send that 
telegram. 

(The hall door is heard to open with a latch-key. And 
after a pause Sandy comes in c). 

Lady Pennybroke and Montague. Sandy ! ! 

Montague. My dear Sandy, you've come back ? 

Sandy. Have I ? What an observant fellow 
you are. Auntie, my dear ! how delightful to find 
you here. (He greets her.) 

Montague. I was just sending you this telegram. 

Sandy. Oh ! 

Montague (chuckling). It'll tickle you to death 
when you read it. 

Sandy. Let's read it. (He takes it.) " I marry 
Dorothy, Monty." 

Sandy. I get nothing but telegrams about people 
getting married. I had two yesterday, one from 
Vera Laurence and the other from Uncle Gregory. 
She married him at a registrar's on Friday. 

Lady Pennybroke (aghast). What ! 

Sandy. Don't know why they did it on Friday — 
such an unlucky day. 

Montague (wringing his hand). My poor fellow, 
and here am I flaunting my happiness before your 
aching heart. 

Sandy. I haven't got an aching heart. I've got 
an aching void. I breakfasted early. (Rings bell 
by door c.) • , 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 6? 

Lady Pennybroke (recovering her breath after the 
shock of Sandy's announcement). Gregory married 
"to that woman ? 

Sandy. You mustn't talk of Vera like that. 

Lady Pennybroke. I will. I feel it. Gregory 
•and that woman married. 

Sandy (coming down a). Don't take it to heirt, 
it might have been worse, it might have been me — - 
don't let us harp on it. Let us consider the incident 
closed and turn to this other eccentricity. (He looks 
at Monty.) What do you want to marry Dorothy 
for? 

Montague (jauntily). Oh, the usual reason, I 
suppose. 

Sandy. Really, what's that ? 

Montague. Love, you know. 

Sandy. Oh yes, foolish of me. What sort of hair 
is she wearing now ? (Crosses to fireplace.) 

Montague (annoyed). Her own, delicious — simple. 

Lady Pennybroke. Dorothy has developed in a 
most amazing way, these last few weeks have wrought 
wonders. You wouldn't know her. 

Sandy. Really ? That's good. 

(Herbert answers bell.) 

Sandy. Lunch as soon as you can, Herbert. 

Herbert. Yes, sir. (Exit c.) 

Sandy. Staying to lunch, auntie ? 

Lady Pennybroke. Yes. 

Sandy. Monty ? 

Montague. I am lunching with Dorothy at the 
Carlton, then I'm taking her to see my little place. 

Lady Pennybroke. Monty, show Sandy Doro- 
thy's photograph. I think he will be amazed at the 
metamorphosis. 

Montague (gaily). Where are — ah ! here they are. 

Charming — so charming (He hands them proudly 

to Sandy.) Now perhaps you will understand my 
feelings on the matter. ' ■ s *' ; 



68 ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

(Sandy comes c., looks at the photographs, first at one, 
then at another, then at all together, bewildered and 
amazed?) 

Sandy. I don't believe it — I simply don't believe 
it. 

Montague [chuckling). I thought you'd be tickled 
to death. 

Sandy (stamps angrily). I'm not tickled, damn it — 
this is not Dorothy — my Dorothy 

Montague. She's my Dorothy now. 

Sandy. What infernal nonsense. She couldn't 
have grown into this in three weeks, it's preposterous. 
She's got a figure. She's got an eye, she's got style — 
she's got charm — who told you you could take her 
out to lunch ? 

Montague. Upon my word ! ! 

Sandy. I forbid you to do so, on the very day that 
I come home — unheard of, positively unheard of. 
If the poor child wants to be taken out to lunch, I'll 
take her out to lunch myself. 

Lady Pennybroke. You forget they are engaged 
to be married. 

Sandy. No such thing, he collects birds' eggs — 
not wives. 

Montague. How dare you address such words 

Sandy. Don't you shout at me in my own flat, I 
won't have it. You mustn't get married to any- 
body, do you hear ? You're too old — you're too fat, 
you're too settled down. Go and look at yourself in 
the glass — it's indecent — it's positively indecent, 
you're my oldest friend and I won't hear of it. (He 
looks at photograph.) Ton my word, she's deucedly 
attractive. (Walking up and down stage.) 

Montague. Give me back those photographs. 

Sandy. I shall do no such thing. (Crosses L. 
then updo c. and down again.) 

Montague. I decline to stand calmly by while you 
gloat over my property. 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 69 

Sandy. Your property — pish ! She's really most 
attractive. 

Lady Pennybroke. You don't propose to raise 
any obstacle, it's an excellent match for Dorothy. 

Sandy. Is it ? (He turns and looks at Monty who 
is puffing heavily with rage.) Is it really? Don't 
wobble and breathe so hard. Be placid, I want to 
look at you. 

(.4 long pause. Monty sweats under Sandy's cold 

scvn f :u\'.) 

A good match for h^r, is it ? Well, women do take 
to funny things. Well, thsre are your photographs. 
After all, it's nothing to do with me. (He bundles 
the photographs on to Monty.) 

Montague. Nothing whatever to do with you, 
and although you are my oldest friend, I tell you 
your behaviour is unpardonable. Your words unfor- 
gettable. Unforgivable. 

Sandy. Yes, I'm sorry. (He takes Monty's 
hand.) But I was looking at you with a young 
woman's eye, you see, if I was a young woman that is 
how you would appeal to me. But as I'm not a 
young woman— there's no harm done and we're 
frien is just the same. Take your bride elect to lunch, 
I'm very hungry. Auntie, you and I will lunch to- 
gether, after all, marriage is all right for those who 
want to get married — but it can't teach us anything, 
can it ? 

Lady Pennybroke (shocked). Sandy ! 

Sandy (a pause). Perhaps that remark was a little 
indelicate. I'm rattled. I want food. (A pause') 
And where is the wonderful Dorothy ? I suppose I'd 
better give her my blessing. (He rings.) If you're 
going to lunch at the Carlton, you'd better get a move 
on you. 

(Enter Herbert.) 

Tell Miss Dorothy that Mr. Jordan is getting impatient 
for his lunch. 



70: ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

Montague. No such thing. 

(Exit Herbert. Lady Pennybroke rises and' 
crosses to L., sits on stool.) 

Dorothy (heard in the passage) . Put lavender in 
the boxes if you like, Mrs. Allaway. Don't you. 
worrit. I'm really quite happy as I am. 

Sandy. Sh e's quite happy as she am — that's good 

(And Dorothy comes in r., dressed exactly as she was 
when she first appeared. A shabby shapeless frock, 
too large in the waist, too small in the skirt, her hair 
drawn off her forehead and knotted in a bun on tlie 
top of her head. The little straw hat, perched askew 
and the spectacles on her nose. She does not know 
that Sandy is present. She comes slowly down to 
c, putting on a grubby pair of cotton gloves.) 

Dorothy. I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, 
Mr. Jordan, but it took longer than I thought to make 
myself respectable. I had forgotten the knack of it 
somehow. 

Montague. Great heavens, Dorothy ! 

Dorothy (she sees Sandy, and wilts — there 's a long 
pause). You're back — and— and — I'm the old me 
again. (Then vehemently.) I'm not — I'm not — really 
— this is only for him. The new me was for you. This 
— this — (she indicates herself) this — is anybody's and 
it's going to lunch at the Carlton, 

Sandy (drily to Monty). Shall I ring for a taxi ? 

Montague. Certainly not ! Dorothy, what does 
this mean ? I can't take you out like that. 

Dorothy. Can't you — it's all I've got. 

Montague. Don't be absurd. 

Dorothy. This is all I've got of my own — all the 
rest is Uncle Sandy's. 

Sandy. My dear girl, I can't wear 'em, and judg- 
ing by your photograph, you can. 

Dorothy (with a sudden blaze of happiness). Oh» 
have you seen my photographs ? 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 71 

Monty. Take those things off at once. You— 
you — shock me. 

Dorothy. I won't. I'll be married and live and 
die in them. 

Lady Pennybroke. Have you taken leave of 
your senses, girl ? 

Dorothy [demurely). Uncle Sandy, he's goin CT to 
show me his birds' eggs. 

Monty. In those clothes, never ! Take them off 
at once and do something to your hair. 

Dorothy. I won't be ordered about. Don't let 
him do it, Uncle Sandy. 

Sandy. I can't interfere. You're going to marry 
him, I'm not. 

Monty. Are you going to put your other clothe 
on ? 

Dorothy. No, I am not— so there. 

Monty (going to her). I insist. 

Dorothy. Pooh ! 

Monty. I— I (He becomes almost speechless ) 

This is beyond belief (Goes up stage.) 

Sandy. You'll get on better when vou're married. 

Monty (stamps at Sandy). Silence, Sandy'. 
(Coming down to her.) Dorothy, you disobey me. 

Dorothy. I won't go out with you in Uncle 
Sandys clothes. 

Sandy. They're your clothes. I gave 'em to you. 

Dorothy. I prefer myself as I am, so there. 
(Pulls her hat with a jerk over her eyes.) 

Monty. Once for all, will you take off those— those 
— things. 

Dorothy. No— no— no. 

Monty. Then I absolutely decline to take you to 
the Carlton. 
Dorothy. I'm jolly glad. 

Sandy. Perhaps he won't show you his birds' 
eggs either. 

Monty. Certainly not. 

Dorothy. I don't want to see 'em, so there. 



72 ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

Lady Pennybroke. This is a most unseemly 
wrangle . 

Md'nty. Most unseemly. I am distressed beyond 
words. 

Dorothy. You said you wanted to marry me, 
you didn't say you wanted to marry Uncle Sandy's 
clothes. 

Sandy. Oh, blow the clothes — go and put 'em on 
at once. I want to see how you look in them. 

Dorothy [delighted). Do you really ? (She claps 
her hands with glee.) I will — I will. But I won't go 
out with him in them. 

Monty. I forbid you to put them on at his bid- 
ding. 

Sandy. Monty ! 

Monty (feebly mopping his brow) . Oh, this is most 
unseemly — most unseemly. I don't know where I 
am. (Walking up and down stage then sits l.c.) 

Sandy. I think you're in the cart. 

Dorothy. First you want them on, then you 
don't want them on. What do you want ? 

Monty. I don't know. Oh, most unseemly. 
Most unseemly. 

Sandy (severely.) Go and put them on. 

Dorothy (very quietly). Yes, Uncle Sandy. 

(And she goes out R. like a lamb.) 

Monty. What — what am I to make of this ? 

Sandy. Make the best of it. (Goes up to doorR.) 

Monty. She cannot love me. 

Sandy. I told you so, but you wouldn't believe 
me. (Coming c.) 

Monty. It — it is unprecedented. (Rising.) 

Sandy. No, it isn't — do look in the glass. 

Monty (stamps about in a rage, then stops suddenly 
and turns to Lady Pennybroke). Lady Penny- 
broke. Lady Pennybroke, you are responsible for 
this. 

Lady Pennybroke (rising, greatly irate). I ! ! 
Man ! 



ELIZA CMOES TO STAY 73 

.Monty. What was your allusion to a dust heap ? 
Lady Pennybroke. Montague! (Sits in arm- 
chair L.C.) 

(Monty sits top of table c.) 

Sandy. Now don't you two quarrel as well. Let 
us look at this matter sensibly. Monty, you're an 
ass to want to marry a girl who obviously doesn't 
want to marry you— as man to man, don't you 
think you are ? 

Monty (feebly). I had no idea she would adopt 
this attitude. 

Sandy. What man can have any idea of what 
attitude any woman will adopt ? That's why we 
love 'em. They're so damned incomprehensible— 
but now as my oldest friend, I must speak plainly, 
it may be all very well for a man to marry a woman 
who loves him— but for a man to marry a woman who 
doesn't love him just because he's ass enough to love 
her seems to me to be asking for trouble. 

Monty. I don't wish to ask for trouble. I have 
always been very happy in the past. 

Sandy. Again, as my oldest friend— take my 
advice, keep on being happy in the past— there's no 
future for you. 

Monty. Lady Pennybroke, would it be better to 
regard the engagement as dissolved ? 

Lady Pennybroke. Don't consult me. 

Monty. You helped me into it, I thought you 
might help me out of it. 

Lady Pennybroke. She wants to marry Sandv, 
Nobody else will do. 

m Sandy. She wants to marry me, does she— now, 
isn't that like a woman ? I suppose I've got some- 
thing to say in the matter ? 

Lady Pennybroke. Very little. I know women. 

Sandy. Do ye ? You're a marvel. 

Monty. You haven't seen her yet. 

Sandy. Yes I have— I— I— have seen bits of 



74 ELIZA C03IES TO STAY 

her. She wants to marry me, does she ? I must 
have a serious talk with the young lady — and show her 
the error of her wa} T s. 

Monty (who has been thinking deeply). Lady 
Pennybroke, I shall ask you to convey to Dorothy — 
that — that — I release her from her — her — engage- 
ment to me. I — I (He rises.) I have had a 

trying morning. I will go home. (Gets hat, gloves 
and stick from chair L.) 

Sandy. Yes, I think you're better off at home. 

Monty (coming to c). I have never found myself 
in such a difficult position before. 

Sandy. Go home and think it over. That's the 
wisest thing. 

Monty {putting on gloves). But you see it was all 
definite a quarter of an hour ago. And now it's all 
^■/definite — most unsettling. 

Sandy. You've tried dealing intimately with the 
opposite sex, your experience is not unusual. I — I — 
(He looks towards the door.) I will have a talk to her. 

Monty (up by door c). Meanwhile, I will go home. 
You know my telephone number if there are any 
developments. 

Sandy. You are going ? 

Monty. Yes. Telephone if you want me. (To 
Lady Pennybroke.) B-r-r-r-r, it's all your fault. 

(He goes out with great dignity.) 

Sandy. Well, now that he's gone, you can tell me 
when all this began to happen. 

Lady Pennybroke. I only heard of it this morn- 
ing, and as the girl has completely won me over I did 
my best to promote the match. 

Sandy. You thought it a good thing for her to 
marry Monty ? 

Lady Pennybroke. A most admirable match for 
her. 

Sandy. 'Pon my word. Good, bad or indifferent. 
None of you women have any real sense of decency. 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 75 

Lady Pennybroke. Sandy ! ! (Rising.) 

SandY. How dare you suggest that any young 
girl should marry that — that dear old lady. 

Lady Pennybroke (rising). I had intended to 
lunch with you, Sandy, but perhaps — in your present 
mood, I shall be better off at home. (Sweeps up to 
door c, then stops in thought.) 

Sandy. All right. (Sits on settee.) 

Lady Pennybroke (she goes to him with genuine 
feeling, over buck of settee). You've got this girl on 
your hands. You say women have no sense of 
decency — well, I'm old but I've got this sense left. 
I'd trust a man, and even though you are my nephew 
— I feel }-ou're a man, you've got a problem to face 
with this young woman. I leave you to it. (Going 
up.) 

Sandy. Aren't you going to stay to lunch ? 

Lady Pennyirdke (up c. by door). Xo. Xo. 
I'll go to the stores — alone. I — I want to think. 

Sandy. But — but what am I to do about Doro- 
thy ? 

Lady Pennybroke. You will do what you please. 
Men always do. 

Sandy. I wonder, do we ? 

Lady Pennybroke. You don't — you do what we 
please, but you don't know it. 

Sandy (lamely). I don't like your going like this. 
(Rising and going up to her.) 

Lady Pennybroke. I do. I — I'm upset — no- 
body's fault but my own. I can collect myself at 
the stores. 

Sandy. Well, if you must — you must. 

Lady Pennybroke Sandy. (She has get to the 
Hall with Sandy). Sandy, I'm very you did 

not marry that Laurence woman — but I am trembling 
for Gregory. 

Sandy (chuckles). Ch. Uncle Gregory will keep 
his end up. He's a sport. 

Lady Pennybroke. I — I don't know what to say 



76 ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

about Dorothy. I — I think I'd better leave it to you. 

Sandy (vacantly). Yes, yes, I think you'd better 
leave it to me. Good-bye, dear. 

Lady Pennybroke. Good-bye, dear. 

Sandy. Good-bye. 

(And he closes the hall door after her, comes back into 
the room, stands lost in thought, picks up one of the 
photographs from writing-table.) 

And she's a very difficult problem which ever way 
you take her. 

(Herbert comes in c. and begins laying lunch.) 

Sandy (still looking at the photograph). Any news 
in London, Herbert ? 

Herbert (calmly, as he proceeds with laying the 
cloth, etc.). I see Miss Laurence has married Mr. 
Gregory, sir. 

Sandy (amazed). You see ? 

Herbert. Charmin' pictures of them in the 
Mirror this morning, sir. 

Sandy (immensely astonished, but concealing his 
astonishment aider a m%sk of indifference). Oh, really. 

Herbert. Quite good as likenesses too, sir. 

Sandy. Oh, really, you surprise me. (A pause.) 

(Dorothy comes in quietly. Sweetly, simply dressed. 
She has the paper, the " Daily Mirror " in her hand. 
Sandy leans on back of armchair l.c. He stares at 
her in blank amazement but says nothing. She 
sits down on settee with perfect sangfroid and opens 
her paper, after a pause she says gravely.) 

Dorothy. It's very nice to have you back again, 
Uncle Sandy — the flat hasn't been a bit like itself 
without you. 

Sandy (lamely). Hasn't it ? (A long silence.) 

Dorothy. I — I see that Miss Laurence has married 
your uncle. 

Sandy. Oh, yes. 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 77 

Dorothy. I wish I knew what to say to you about 
it, but I don't. 

Sandy. I don't think there's need to say anything. 

(Herbert is laying lunch.) 

Herbert, don't fidget with those forks, I'll ring when 
I want lunch. 

Herbert. Yes, sir. 

(Herbert goes out gravely.) 

Dorothy (nodding her head in thought). She has 
married your uncle— well I can tell you, it's a very 
good thing. 

Sandy. You think it is ? 

Dorothy (gravely). I'm sure it is. 

Sandy. I suppose it is— I thought it was myself 
when I got his telegram. 

Dorothy. I don't know your Uncle Gregory, 
but from his photograph in this paper I think it 
serves him right. 

Sandy (vaguely). He's a spoit. 

Dorothy. What's that ? 

Sandy. I don't quite know. 

Dorothy (after a silence). I— I was silly that day. 

Sandy. What day ? (Crosses to table c.) 

Dorothy. The day she and I made fools of our- 
selves with our hair— the day that drove you away. 

Sandy (pulls himself together). You — you are now 
a different proposition— you — you are' a woman 
now. (Takes chair from top of table c, places it l. of 
table and sits.) 

Dorothy. I am a woman always. 

Sandy. It makes if very difficult for me. 

Dorothy (demurely stroking her hair). This is my 
own hair, Uncle Sandy. I mean it grows on me, all 
except a little piece like a sausage that I have to twist 
mine round to make it stick out properly. 

Sandy. It's— it— still makes it very difficult for 
me. 



78 ELIZA COMES TO STAY 

Dorothy (putting down the paper). I don't think 
anything ought to be difficult for anybody. 

Sandy. You must be very young. 

Dorothy [calmly). I am — look at me. 

Sandy. No. I — I don't want to look at you — it 
upsets me to look at you. (Turning away.) 

Dorothy (softly and still not looking at him). It's 
a very good thing to be upset sometimes. You— you 
did like my photographs, didn't you ? (Leaning to- 
wards him.) 

Sandy (dreamily falling in love without realizing it). 
Yes. Charming. Very charming. 

Dorothy. You wouldn't have liked me to have 
married Mr. Jordan, would you ? 

Sandy. No, no, certainly not — not for a moment. 

Dorothy (putting down the paper, says in a whisper 
almost). I wonder what you'll do with me ? 

Sandy. Yes, I'm wondering too. (He gets a bright 
idea.) I think I'll put you into a convent. 

Dorothy (calmly). I won't go into a stuffy old 
convent. 

Sandy. We won't choose a stuffy one, we'll 
choose a nice bright one. Yes, a convent, that's a 
good idea, let's go out and inquire about one now. 

Dorothy. I don't want to go into a convent. 

Sandy [leaning over l. end of settee). But — but — 
I've got to do something with you. 

Dorothy. What was that dreadful thing your 
Uncle Gregory did ? 

Sandy. He married Miss Laurence at a regis * 

(Then he sees her point and glares.) How dare you 
put such ideas into my head ! 

Dorothy. Somebody must put ideas into your 
head, artd — and somehow I thought — that being a 
woman I was the proper person. 

Sandy. You don't mean it, but somehow you are 
becoming a most improper person. 

Dorothy. I told you I was a woman. 

Sandy (looking at her and feebly waving his hands 



ELIZA COMES TO STAY 79 

at his own helplessness). I— I can't get away from 

you (backing away from her.) 

Dorothy (still looking at the paper). That's as it 

should be — now I know that I'm content. (A pause 

—then she says very quietly, rising.) Could you give me 

twenty pounds ? 

Sandy (amazed). Eh !— why, of course I could 
Dorothy (r.c). Then with that I can start out 

for myself. 

Sandy. But you can't start out without me. 

Dorothy. I shall always have you — and I'll 
repay you the £20. Give it me now, and I— I'll go 
away and fight for myself. 

Sandy (looking at her in bewilderment— fascinated) . 
But — but I don't want you to go away. 

Dorothy. What do you want to do— you don't 
seem to know. 

(She turns and looks at him— there is a long pause.) 

Sandy (slowly). I do know what I want to do, 
(Sandy comes to her quietly, takes her in his arms and 
kisses her, then says very tenderly.) Put on your best 
hat and we'll go out and buy a special license. 

(Curtain.) 



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